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-WILLIAM-DOXEY 


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y«-5AN-rRANCISCQ' 


Copyrighted,  1893, 

BY 

William  Doxey. 


Press  of  C.  A.  Murdock  &  Co.,  San  Francisco. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Biographical  Sketches  : 

Page 
Timothy  H.  Rearden,      -        -        -        -     vii 

A  Man  of  Letters,        -        .        .        -         xiii 


Essays  : 

Francis  Petrarch, i 

Alfred  Tennj'son'^v'PcJet^^Laureate,  -           43 

Ditmarsch  and  Klaus  Groth,     -        -  -    105 

Fritz  Renter's  Life  and  Works,  -         133 

Ballads  and  Lyrics,           .        .        .  .    165 

Poem  : 

"The  Sea!    The  Sea!"          -        -  -     199 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES. 


TIMOTHY   H.   REARDEN. 


JUDGE  TIMOTHY  H.  REARDEN  was  born 
of  Irish  parentage,  in  VVooster,  Ohio,  in  the 
year  1S39.  His  father,  Dennis  Rearden,  died  while 
Timothy  was  a  child,  and  the  widow,  with  two 
young  children,  but  with  the  cheerful  courage  of 
her  race,  undertook  the  battle  of  life  An  their  be- 
half 

The  brightness  and  wit  of  her  little  boy  soon 
made  him  friends.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  grad- 
uated from  the  High  School  of  the  city  of  Cleve- 
land, and  four  years  later  from  Kenyon  College. 

In  college  he  was  both  the  delight  and  the  terror 
of  the  professors.  His  scholarship  and  scholarly 
tastes  were  their  pride,  his  affectionate  nature  en- 
deared him  to  their  hearts,  yet  his  escapades  were 
sometimes  serious  ;  but  because  in  part  of  his  abil- 
ity, and  more  because  of  the  love  he  inspired,  no 
severe  penalties  were  inflicted.  When  he  left  col- 
lege he  had,  in  a  very  unusual  degree,  impressed 
himself  upon  the  memory  and  affections  of  profes- 
sors and  students  alike. 

Reporting  for  newspapers,  teaching  in  the  Cleve- 
land public  schools,  and  studying  law  occupied  the 
next  three  or  four  years. 

In  1S62,  Judge  Rearden  served  for  a  time  in  an 
Ohio  regiment,  in  response  to  an  urgent  short- 
term  call.  This  touch  of  army  life  set  many 
chords,  patriotic  and  poetic,  vibrating  in  him, 
which  alwaj's  remained  sensitive. 


Timothy  H.       It  was  not  his  fortune  to  have  been  engaged  in 

Rear  den.        any  great  battle ;   but  who  that  knew  him  can 

doubt  his  possession  of  that  splendid  courage  so 

common  in  his  race,  and  only  needing  opportunity 

to  attain  distinction  or  a  glorious  death  ? 

About  iS66  he  came  to  California,  and  for  a  time 
was  employed  in  the  United  States  Mint.  Bret 
Harte,  Ambrose  Bierce,  and  some  others  of  litera- 
ry tastes  and  acquirements  were  fellow-employes, 
and  Rearden  soon  became  one  of  a  little  coterie 
of  scholars,  artists,  and  writers. 

While  others  wrote  and  published,  he  wrote 
but  did  not,  save  in  rare  instances,  publish.  His 
literary  tastes  were  so  exacting,  that  nothing  he 
did  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  Essays  and  poems 
were  written  and  laid  aside,  as  not,  in  his  opinion, 
coming  up  to  the  requirements  of  publicity.  But 
the  great  drawback  that  prevented  his  coming 
before  the  people  was  his  shyness.  Nothing  could 
induce  him  to  put  himself  in  a  position  where  he 
would  attract  attention.  In  this  age  of  brass,  such 
modesty  as  his,  joined  with  such  merit,  is  a  rare 
spectacle. 

Meantime  he  prosecuted  his  law  studies,  and 
became  in  time  a  learned  lawyer,  but  remained 
all  too  modest  to  push  himself  or  his  fortunes. 
After  leaving  the  Mint  he  worked  a  while  for  other 
lawyers,  but  about  1872  opened  an  office  of  his 
own.  What  came  to  him  in  the  way  of  business 
he  disposed  of  with  a  wealth  of  learning  and  re- 
search out  of  all  proportion  frequently  to  the  im- 
portance of  the  matter  involved. 

The  study  of  languages  and  of  literature  was  his 
great  delight.  It  is  not  much  of  exaggeration  to 
say  that  Greek  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  is  our 

viii 


mother  tong:ue  to  most  of  us.  He  seemed  to  know  Timothy  H. 
all  the  leading  modern  languages,  and  even  their  KcaJ'den. 
various  dialects.  A  publication  of  his  on  some 
ancient  forms  of  the  German  language  won  for 
him  reputation  and  correspondence  with  distin- 
guished literary  men  of  that  country,  who  freely 
expressed  their  admiration  of  such  knowledge  by 
a  scholar  who  never  was  in  Europe,  and  whose 
home  was  in  remote  California. 

Any  notice  of  Judge  Rearden  would  be  incom- 
plete that  did  not  call  attention  to  his  remarkable 
faculty  of  winning  afTection.  He  was  so  shy  that 
not  many  knew  him  ;  but  those  who  did, — chil- 
dren, women,  men, —  gave  him  their  hearts. 

In  1883  a  vacancy  occurred  on  the  bench  of  the 
Superior  Court,  and  Governor  Stoneman  had  the 
right  under  the  Constitution  to  fill  it  by  appoint- 
ment. As  usual,  there  was  a  scramble  for  the 
place.  The  Governor  was  so  distracted  by  the 
claims  of  the  different  candidates,  that  finally  he 
said  to  some  members  of  the  Bar  Association  that 
he  would  be  pleased  if  that  body  would  make  a 
recommendation  to  him  of  a  suitable  candidate. 
Thereupon  the  lawyers  belonging  to  that  organiza- 
tion got  together  and  took  a  vote  by  ballot  as  to 
their  preference  for  the  vacant  judgeship.  Our 
deceased  friend  received  two-thirds  of  all  the 
votes  cast.  Governor  Stoneman  said  he  had  never 
heard  of  Mr.  Rearden  before,  but  that  he  could 
not  overlook  such  an  indorsement,  and  so  ap- 
pointed him. 

In  the  following  year  he  was  elected  by  the  peo- 
ple to  succeed  himself,  and  served  as  judge  till 
January  i,  1891.  On  the  expiration  of  his  term  he 
resumed  the  practice  of  his  profession. 


Timothy  H.  It  was  while  Judge  Rearden  was  on  the  bench 
Rearden.  that  his  romantic  marriage  took  place,  which,  while 
it  cost  his  friends  his  companionship,  was  felt  by 
them  to  concentrate  the  best  of  his  life  in  a  pecu- 
liarly interesting  way.  He  married  Miss  Cowles, 
the  daughter  of  a  Cleveland  and  California  fam- 
ily with  which  he  had  been  closely  connected  in 
kindly  relations  from  his  youth.  His  friends  re- 
joice in  seeing  in  the  little  daughter,  the  only 
child  of  this  marriage,  the  promise  of  a  continu- 
ance of  her  father's  unusual  qualities. 

Ill  health  came  to  be  a  frequent  companion,  but 
neither  he  nor  his  friends  had  any  suspicion  until 
near  the  end  that  there  was  any  danger  of  his  re- 
moval. 

His  last  bit  of  work  was  the  taking  up  and 
completing  the  noble  poem  for  the  last  memorial 
exercises  of  the  Grand  Army  post  to  which  he 
belonged. 

For  one  hundred  years  the  pathetic  story  ot 
Mozart's  Requiem  has  touched  the  hearts  of  all 
who  read  it.  Judge  Rearden's  poem,  prepared  for 
a  memorial  of  his  comrades,  was  his  requiem.  It 
was  the  last  act  of  his  life.  With  the  shadows 
of  death  closing  around  him,  he  gave  the  final 
touches  to  the  poem  and  sent  it  to  the  post  to  be 
read. 

"  Life's  fevered  day  declines  :  its  purple  twilight  falling 
Draws  length'ning  shadows  from  the  broken  flanks  ; 
And  from  the  column's  head,  a  viewless  chief  is  calling : 
'  Guide  right  —  close  up  your  ranks. '  ' ' 

California  has  not  produced  anything  finer  in  its 
line, —  nor  so  good, —  since  Bret  Harte's  tribute  to 
Dickens,  more  than  twenty  years  ago.     There  is 

X 


a  rhythm  and  a  swing  about  it  that  reminds  one    Timothy  II. 
of  the  swing  and  cadence  of  marching  men.  Rearden. 

This  offering  of  our  comrade  to  the  noble  dead 
was  read  on  the  evening  of  May  3,  1892.  A  few 
days  later  he  joined  the  glorious  army  in  the  future 
land. 

To  him,  permeated  by  Grecian  thought  and  lit- 
erature, how  naturally  came  the  Grecian  idea  of 
heaven,  and  with  what  poetic  power  he  weaves  it 
with  the  martial  inspirations  of  the  occasion  ! 

"  Far  in  the  broad  and  gray  expanse  of  spirit  vision, 
Where  tempests  rail  not.  Heaven  forever  smiles, 
Float  on  an  ever-laughing  sea,  the  Fields  Elysian, 
The  wished-for  Happy  Isles. 

"  There,  long-lost  comrades,  risen  from  j'our  couches  gory, 
Leaving  your  nameless  graves  and  crumbling  clay, 
And,  recking  nothing  earthly  fame  or  paltry  glory, 
Ye  know  a  brighter  day. 

"  And  there  the  stately  captains  of  the  host  immortal 
Call  out  the  guard  that  ushers  heroes  in  ; 
And  each  brave  soul  that,  trembling,  knocks  at  Death's  dark 
portal 
Is  proudly  mustered  in." 

Warren  Olnev. 


A    MAN    OF    LETTERS. 


IN  the  death  of  ex-Judge  Timothy  H.  Rearden, 
California  has  experienced  a  loss  of  which  she  is 
not  presently'  conscious,  and  which  is  more  likely 
to  be  adequately  estimated  in  another  generation 
than  in  this.  A  lawyer  dies,  and  his  practice 
passes  to  others.  A  judge  falls  in  harness  ;  an- 
other is  appointed  or  elected,  and  the  business 
of  the  court  goes  on  as  before,  frequently  better. 
But  for  the  vacancy  left  by  a  scholar  and  man 
of  letters  there  are  no  applicants.  To  that  there 
is  no  successor ;  neither  the  Governor  has  the  ap- 
pointing power  nor  the  people  the  power  to  elect. 
The  vacancy  is  permanent,  the  loss  irreparable  ; 
something  has  gone  out  of  the  better  and  higher 
life  of  the  community  which  cannot  be  replaced, 
and  the  void  is  the  dead  man's  best  monument, 
invisible  but  imperishable.  Other  scholars  and 
men  of  letters  will  come  forward  in  the  new  gen- 
eration, but  of  none  can  it  be  said  that  he  carries 
forward  on  the  same  lines  the  work  of  the  "van- 
ished hand,"  nor  declares  exactly  those  truths  of 
nature  and  art  that  w'ould  have  been  formulated 
by  the  "voice  that  is  still." 

In  that  elder  education  which  was  once  es- 
teemed the  only  needful  intellectual  equipment 
of  a  gentleman,  those  attainments  still  commonly, 
and  perhaps  preferably,  denoted  by  the  word 
"scholarship,"  Judge  Rearden  was  probably  with- 
out an  equal  on  this  side  of  the  continent.     This 


A  Man  of  statement  will  surprise  manj-  even  of  those  of  his 
Letters.  personal  friends  who  thought  the^'  knew  him  best ; 
for,  except  by  his  habit  of  historical  and  literary 
allusion  —  to  which  he  was  perhaps  somewhat 
over-addicted — and  by  that  significant  something 
so  difficult  to  name,  yet  to  the  discerning  few  so 
obvious,  in  the  thought  and  speech  of  learned 
men  —  which  is  not  altogether  breadth  and  reach 
of  reason,  nor  altogether  subtlety  of  taste  and 
sentiment,  and,  in  sober  truth,  is  compatible  with 
their  opposites, —  except  for  these  indirect  disclos- 
ures, he  seldom,  and  to  few  indeed,  gave  even  a 
hint  of  the  wealth  in  the  treasury  of  his  mind. 

Graduating  from  Kenyon  College,  in  Ohio,  with 
little  except  a  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek,  a 
studious  habit,  and  disposition  so  unworldly  that 
it  might  almost  be  called  unearthly,  he  pursued 
his  amassment  of  knowledge  with  the  unfailing 
diligence  of  an  unfailing  love  to  the  end.  He 
knew  not  only  the  classical  languages,  and  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  tongues  of  modern  Europe,  but 
their  various  dialects  as  well.  To  know  a  lan- 
guage is  nothing ;  but  to  know  its  literature  from 
the  beginning  forward,  and  to  have  incorporated 
its  veritable  essence  and  spirit  into  mind  and 
character  —  that  is  much ;  and  that  is  what  Rear- 
den  had  done  with  regard  to  all  these  tongues. 
Doubtless  this  is  not  the  meat  upon  which  intellec- 
tual Caesars  feed,  and  doubtless  he  did  not  make 
that  full  use  of  his  attainments  which  the  world 
approves  as  "practical,"  and  at  which  he  smiled, 
in  his  odd,  tolerant  way,  as  one  may  smile  at  the 
earnest  work  of  a  child  making  mud  pies. 

Yet  Rearden's  was  not  altogether  a  barren  pen. 
Of  Bret  Harte's  brigiit  band  of  literary  coadjutors 


on  the  old  Overland  JMonihIy  lie  was  among  the  A  Man  of 
first  and  best,  and  at  various  times,  though  irregu-  Letters. 
larly  and  all  too  infrequently,  he  enriched  the  va- 
rious Californian  and  other  periodicals  with  noble 
contributions  in  prose  and  verse.  Among  the  for- 
mer were  essays  on  Petrarch  and  Tennyson  ;  the 
latter  included  a  poem  of  no  mean  merit  on  the 
Charleston  earthquake,  and  a  recent  one  which 
he  had  intended  to  read  before  the  George  H. 
Thomas  Post  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic, 
but  was  prevented  by  his  last  illness.  Reading  it 
now  in  the  solemn  light  that  lies  along  his  path 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  the  initial  stan- 
za seems  to  have  a  significance  almost  prophetic : 

"  Life's  fevered  day  declines  :  its  purple  twilight  falling 
Draws  length'ning  shadows  from  the  broken  flanks ; 
And  from  the  column's  head,  a  viewless  chief  is  calling: 
'  Guide  right — close  up  your  ranks.'  " 

Some  of  his  papers  for  the  Chit-chat  Club  could 
not  too  easily  be  matched  by  selections  from  the 
magazines  and  reviews,  and  if  a  collection  were 
made  of  the  pieces  that  he  loved  to  put  out  in  that 
wasteful  way,  we  should  have  a  volume  of  notable 
reading,  distinguished  for  a  sharply  accented  indi- 
viduality of  thought  and  style. 

For  a  number  of  years  before  his  death  Rear- 
den  was  engaged  in  constructing  (the  word 
"writing"  is  here  inadequate)  a  work  on  Sappho, 
which,  as  we  understand  the  matter,  was  to  be  a 
kind  of  compendium  of  all  the  little  that  is  known 
and  pretty  nearly  all  the  much  that  has  been  con- 
jectured and  said  of  her.  It  was  to  be  profusely 
illustrated  by  master-hands,  copiously  annotated, 
and  enriched  by  variorum  readings  —  a  book  for 


A  Man  of  bookworms.  Of  its  present  status  we  are  not  ad- 
Letters.  vised,  but  trust  that  it  is  so  far  advanced  toward 
completion  that  none  of  this  labor  of  love  may  be 
lost.  A  work  which  for  many  years  engaged  the 
hand  and  the  heart  of  such  a  man  as  he  cannot, 
of  whatever  else  it  may  be  devoid,  lack  that  dis- 
tinction which  is  to  literature  what  it  is  to  charac- 
ter— its  life,  its  glory,  and  its  crown. 

Ambrose  Bierce. 


ESSAYS. 


FRANCIS  PETRARCH. 

"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost ; 
But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 

"  Odero,  si  potero  ;  si  non,  invitus  amabo." 
N  taking  as  the  subject  of  my 
essay  the  first  and  greatest 
lyric  poet  of  the  Italians,  I 
feel  conscious  that  I  am  on 
well-worn  and  possibly  over- 
worked hterary  ground,  which  has  been 
ploughed  up,  harrowed,  and  planted  (often- 
times with  exotic  crops  of  fiction  rather 
than  facts),  generation  by  generation,  for 
nearly  five  centuries.  I  do  not  intend  to 
offer  anything  new  in  the  way  of  illustration, 
or  to  give  more  than  a  sketchy  review,  the 
materials  for  which  might  be  examined  by 
any  one  in  an  hour's  time  spent  in  an  ordi- 
nary public  library. 

The  fact  is,  that  novel  research  has  at  this 
day  few  outposts.  One  might  go  to  India, 
and,  after  a  lifetime  spent  at  its  oracles,  bring 
back  to  the  western  world  of  civihzation  some- 
thing new  and  valuable ;  one  might  pitch  his 
tent  among  the  bituminous  ruins  of  Babylon, 


Francis  and  find  profitable  subject  for  study ;  but 
European  history  has  been  read  and  re-read, 
indexed,  glossaried,  padded  with  excursus, 
and  viewed  in  so  many  lights  that  not  a  fleck 
or  spot  remains  unnoted,  even  for  the  scholar 
who  haunts  the  literary  walks  of  London  or 
Paris,  Rome  or  Florence.  But  when,  instead 
of  being  in  the  swim  of  European  literary 
currents,  one  is  beached,  as  it  were,  on  dis- 
tant shores,  with  nothing  to  put  him  in  sym- 
pathy with  those  who  are  at  the  centres  of 
mundane  intellectual  civilization,  it  is  difficult 
to  rise  above  the  trite  and  commonplace  in 
literary  criticism. 

But  still,  if  we  do  not  occasionally  examine 
our  models,  we  would  forget  their  peculiar 
beauties,  and  would  find  ourselves  drifting 
away  into  heresies,  and  homage  to  strange 
gods,  leaving  the  temples  and  altars  of  our 
literary  family  idols  desolate  and  bare. 

One  of  these  shrines  was  set  up  five  hun- 
dred years  since  at  Vaucluse,  with  Francesco 
Petrarca  for  its  minister,  and  on  its  walls  the 
literary  world  has  ever  since  been  hanging  up 
its  ex  votos,  and  taking  part  in  its  liturgy, 

Francis  Petrarch  was  born  at  the  Tus- 
can town  of  Arezzo,  on  the  20th  of  July, 
1304.     The  circumstances  of  his  birth  are  of 


a   romantic  character  ;  and  it  would  seem  as     Francis 
if  the  wandering-  spirit  of  unrest  that  presided 
over  his  long  life  had  taken  charge  of  him 
even  in  his  mother's  womb,  and  made  him  a 
pilgrim  and  exile  from  his  birth. 

His  father  was  one  of  the  band  of  Floren- 
tines driven  out  during  the  strifes  of  the  Bimica 
and  Nera  parties,  which  at  the  same  time 
sent  Dante  (a  friend  of  the  elder  Petrarch) 
forth  as  a  fugitive,  never  to  return.  The  an- 
cestry of  the  poet  was  of  gentle  origin  but 
limited  means,  with  a  hereditary  tendency  to 
municipal  aspirations  and  literary  culture. 
The  Petrarca  household  (Petracco,  Petrac- 
colo,  and  Petrarco)  in  many  points  resembled 
that  of  Goethe,  both  in  its  social  and  political 
status.  But,  unlike  Goethe,  Petrarch's  in- 
fancy was  shadowed  with  family  misfortune 
and  ruin,  brought  about  by  the  party  feuds  of 
Florence  ;  and  at  the  very  hour  of  the  poet's 
birth,  his  father  was  engaged  in  a  forcible  but 
unsuccessful  effort  to  reclaim  his  citizenship 
and  his  property. 

A  few  months  after  the  birth  of  Petrarch, 
his  mother,  Eletta  (who  was  of  the  Canigiani 
family),  betook  herself  with  the  boy  to  An- 
cise,  where  the  family  had  some  little  prop- 
erty; and  they  there  remained  until  the  child 
had  reached  its   eiqhth   vear,  when  the  head 


Francis  of  the  house  removed  with  them  to  Avignon, 
the  then  residence  of  Clement  V.,  a  Gascon 
Pope,  which  place  had  become  ancL  remained 
the  seat  of  the  Papal  power  during  the  period 
styled  "The  Babylonish  Captivity"  of  the 
Papacy,  commencing  in  1305,  and  continuing 
until  1378,  four  years  after  Petrarch's  death. 

The  young  exile,  from  his  eleventh  to  his 
fifteenth  year,  went  to  school  at  Carpentras; 
then  removed  to  Montpelier,  where  he  re- 
mained four  years. 

Like  Goethe's  parent,  Petrarch's  father  in- 
tended him  for  the  law,  but,  unlike  the  Ger- 
man, did  not  as  well  seek  to  encourage  his 
son  in  general  literary  culture.  Indeed,  an 
anecdote  is  given,  depicting  Petrarch  senior 
flinging  the  classical  works  which  his  son  was 
surreptitiously  reading  into  the  fire.  As, 
however,  he  seems  to  have  softened,  and  res- 
cued them  from  the  burning,  it  is  quite  prob- 
able that  Petrarch's  fondness  for  the  poets 
was,  after  all,  a  bit  of  hereditary  weakness. 

It  may  also  be  fairly  assumed  that  any  jurist 
of  those  days  would  necessarily  have  a  turn 
to  polite  literature,  as  even  Cino  da  Pistoja, 
the  friend  of  Dante,  and  Petrarch's  reputed 
preceptor  at  Bologna,  whither  the  student 
had  gone  to  complete  his  legal  studies,  was 
fond  of  elegant  learning,  and  no  mean  poet 

4 


liiiiiself.  Indeed,  Cino  was  the  lover  of  Sel-  Francis 
viit^gia  (Ricciardetta  dei  Selvaggi),  one  of  '  '''^'^  ' 
the  four  ladies  of  that  period  rendered  famous 
by  their  respective  idolaters,  Selvaggia  being 
styled  the  "  bel  numer'  una"  of  the  poetic 
group,  the  remaining  three  being  Dante's 
Beatrice,  Petrarch's  Laura,  and  Boccaccio's 
Fiammetta. 

In  1325,  Petrarch's  mother,  a  beautiful  and 
good  woman,  died,  and  in  1326  his  father. 
These  misfortunes  drew  Petrarch  back  to 
Avignon,  where  he  and  his  only  brother, 
Gerard,  found  their  inheritance  wasted  by 
their  guardian. 

It  was  possibly  his  deprivation  of  means 
that  led  Petrarch  to  take  the  tonsure.  But  in 
those  days  there  was  not  that  strict  sense  of 
propriety  and  of  the  earnestness  of  a  re- 
ligious calling  that  has  grown  up  since  ;  and 
the  court  and  society  of  Avignon  were  re- 
markable as  well  for  luxury  as  for  the  air  of 
gallantry  that  was  indigenous  in  that  home  of 
the  joyous  science  of  the  Troubadours.  At 
this  period  his  many  brilliant  social  qualities 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  Colonna  family, 
a  branch  of  which  was  settled  at  Avignon. 
He  also  found  a  friend  in  John  of  Florence, 
Apostolic  Secretary,  a  learned  and  patriotic 
Italian. 


Francis  Here  were  the  two  young  men,    Francis 

and  Gerard,  thrown  upon  their  own  resources. 
Petrarch,  barely  twenty-two,  with  a  complex- 
ion which  the  women  envied  him,  a  graceful- 
ness of  person  and  demeanor  that  drew  every 
eye  upon  him  in  admiration,  fastidious  as  a 
lady  in  his  attire,  actually  pinching  his  feet  in 
small  shoes,  with  an  excess  of  foppishness, 
with  a  scholar's  skill  in  chivalrous  verse, 
whether  vulgar  or  learned,  was  at  that  date  fit 
for  nothing  so  much  as  a  grand  passion,  and 
only  needed  a  proper  object  to  adore  and  be 
miserable  about.  This  he  found  at  Matins, 
April  6,  1327,  in  the  church  of  Santa  Clara, 
in  Avignon.  This  day  was  at  that  period  a 
sort  of  red-letter  Lady  day,  and  may  have 
been  fixed  upon  by  the  lover  as  a  proper  con- 
ventional period  whence  to  date  his  real  pas- 
sion. It  is  amusing  to  notice  how  many 
hearts,  then  as  now,  Cupid  pierced  with  shafts 
sent  from  the  ambush  of  a  prayer-book.  No 
wonder  those  early  illuminators  worked  the 
little  wretch  as  an  ornament  into  the  borders 
of  the  most  fervent  orisons  ! 

Laura  de  Noves,  wife  of  Hugo  de  Sade, 
was  then  in  her  twentieth  year,  and  had  been 
a  wife  two  years.  Taking  it  for  granted  that 
the  alleged  portraits  of  her  that  have  reached 


Petrarch. 


us  are  correct,  her  style  of  beauty  had  a  de-  Francis 
mure  dignity  which  would  have  been  certain 
to  inthrall  an  intellectual  person,  who  might 
be  attracted  by  it  when  posed,  in  religious  hu- 
milit)'',  upon  a  hassock  at  early  devotions.  She 
was  not  a  blue-stocking.  It  has  been  mur- 
mured by  priggish  critics  that  she  could 
barely  have  known  how  to  read.  She  seems 
to  have  been  femininely  fond  of  gorgeous  at- 
tire. She  had  two  dresses,  the  description  of 
which  has  come  down  to  us,  that,  to  use  an 
enthusiastic  expression,  were  "just  too  lovely 
for  anything. ' ' 

Laura  was,  however,  remarkable  for  her 
virtue  and  discretion,  and  all  the  personal 
beauty  and  accomplishments  of  the  embryo 
poet  appear  not  to  have  caused  her  to  swerve 
a  hair's  breadth  from  the  safe  path  of  conjugal 
fidelity.  Heine's  mahcious  verses  might  ap- 
ply to  her  : 

"  Zu  der  Lauheit  und  der  Flaiiheit 
Deiner  Seele  passte  nicht 
INIeiner  Liebe  wilde  Rauheit, 

Die  sich  Bahn  durch  Felsen  bricht. 

"  Du,  du  liebtest  die  Chausseen 
In  der  Liebe,  und  ich  schau 
Dich  am  Arm  des  Gatten  gehen. " 

But  poor  Petrarch  took  the  disease  in  its 
most  virulent  form.  His  divinity's  charms 
7 


Francis  were  thenceforth  ever  in  his  thoughts;  and 
he  recorded  his  feelings  and  sorrows  in  a  suc- 
cession of  sonnets,  madrigals,  ballads,  and 
canzoniy  that,  superior  to  the  class  of  erotic 
lyrics  then  in  circulation,  fell  in  with  the  taste 
in  that  regard  of  his  contemporaries  ;  and  he 
became  famous,  not  so  much  for  his  great 
qualities  as  a  man  as  for  his  vmhappy  weak- 
ness as  a  lover. 

It  may  be  fairly  set  down  as  a  fact,  that  a 
disappointment  or  misfortune  in  an  author's 
love  affairs  is  the  best  recommendation  to 
popular  favor  that  he  can  have.  Successful 
love,  it  is  true,  excites  a  certain  degree  of 
tender  interest;  but  the  sentimental  world  ad- 
mits the  jilted  swain,  or  him  who  has  loved 
and  forever  lost,  at  once  to  its  heart,  without 
asking  for  passport.  It  is  the  nightingale 
with  breast  tortured  by  the  thorn  whose  song 
is  the  most  emotional.  Loss  of  wealth  or 
power  cannot  move  the  heart  nearly  so  effec- 
tually as  the  misfortune  which  springs  from 
the  adverse  whim  of  some  simple  girl,  or  the 
removal  by  death  of  some  unpretending  wife 
from  the  circle  of  a  man's  worldly  happiness. 
"  Hyperion  "  is  a  bright  book  of  travel;  but  I 
question  if  its  pictures  of  Old-World  experi- 
ences would  strike  us  half  so  vividly  if  it  were 
not  that  we  view  them  through  the  eyes  of  a 


young  husband  stricken  by  the  greatest  do-     Francis 

■  r    ^  Petrarch. 

mestic  misiortune. 


In  his  twenty-eighth  year,  Petrarch  left 
Avignon  for  a  grand  tour  through  France 
and  Germany.  He  hoped  by  this  absence  to 
dull  the  pain  of  his  unfortunate  passion.  He 
visited  Paris,  the  Low  Countries,  and  Ger- 
many ;  and  on  coming  back  to  Italy,  he, 
together  with  Jacob  Colonna,  journeyed  to 
Rome,  to  gratify  their  enthusiastic  taste  for 
its  antiquities. 

But  Avignon  and  Laura  were  ever  asso- 
ciated in  his  thoughts.  He  hastened  back, 
and  on  his  return  thither,  at  the  instance  of 
his  patron.  Cardinal  Colonna,  he  entered  the 
service  of  John  XXII.,  then  Pope,  who  em- 
ployed him  as  an  envoy  to  France,  to  Italian 
princes,  and  even,  as  is  said,  to  England. 

Wearying  of  this,  Petrarch  sought  retire- 
ment in  Vaucluse,  where  he  nursed  his  love 
griefs  with  the  most  tender  assiduity. 

Vaucluse  ( Val  Chiusa,  Vallis  Clazisd)  is 
a  beautiful  and  romantic  spot,  fourteen  miles 
from  Avignon.  Its  rocks,  its  picturesque 
beauty,  and  the  fact  that  here  Petrarch  idled 
away  so  many  hours  of  lovesick  melancholy, 
have  rendered  the  place,  with  the  petulant  lit- 
tle river  Sorgue,  that  boils  through  the  valley, 
9 


Francis  one  of  the  most  interesting  attractions  for  lit- 
e  tare  I.   gj.^j.y  pilgrimages  in  the  south  of  Europe. 

In  this  spot  Petrarch  Hved  with  an  old 
fisherman  and  his  wife — ignorant  peasants, 
whom  Petrarch,  however,  easily  found  worthy 
of  his  friendship,  and  about  whom  he  wrote 
some  of  his  most  interesting  and  touching 
observations. 

At  this  period  he  projected  his  Latin  epic, 
"Africa,"  desiring  thereby  to  glorify  his  great 
hero,  Scipio  Africanus. 

At  this  time,  too,  he  seems  to  have  had 
an  intrigue  which  might  give  cause  to  doubt 
his  sincerity  in  his  poetic  professions  of  hom- 
age to  Laura.  Whatever  feeling  Petrarch 
invested  in  the  experience,  the  girl  involved 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  as  rigorous  as 
Laura.  A  son,  Giovanni,  was  born  in  1337, 
whom  Petrarch  afterwards  recognized  and  had 
legitimated.  What  a  relief  the  matter-of-fact 
facility  of  this  humble  love  must  have  been 
to  the  icicle-tipped  sentiment  of  the  stately 
Laura! 

But  his  learning,  his  political  experience, 
and  his  amiable  character  (and  above  all, 
perhaps,  the  romance  of  his  barren  love)  be- 
gan to  bring  him  literary  glory  ;  and  at  this 
time  he  received  from  the  Chancellor  of  the 


University  of  Paris  and  from  the  Roman  Francis 
Senate  simultaneous  invitations  to  visit  those 
capitals,  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  a  laurel 
crown  as  a  mark  of  recognition  of  his  emi- 
nence as  a  poet.  He  decided,  from  patriotic 
motives,  to  accept  the  Senate's  invitation. 

His  real  claims  as  a  poet  rested  at  that  pe- 
riod properly  upon  his  Tuscan  sonnets;  but 
these  he  regarded  as  but  trifles,  and  he  felt 
that,  to  entitle  him  to  the  glory  proffered,  he 
should  produce  something  in  Latin,  namely, 
his  epic  "Africa,"  before  mentioned.  This 
prize  poem,  in  an  unfinished  state,  he  sub- 
mitted to  Robert,  the  cultivated  King  of 
Naples,  who  formally  examined  him  as  to  his 
qualifications  as  Laureate,  and  pronounced 
him  worthy,  giving  him  his  own  robe  of  state 
as  a  fitting  garment  in  which  to  present  him- 
self at  Rome  for  the  expected  honor.  Those 
were  the  days  of  pageantry;  and  the  laurel 
wreath  was  bestowed  upon  Petrarch  April 
17,  1 341,  in  a  manner  most  gratifying  to  the 
recipient,  and  reflecting  credit  upon  the  taste 
and  culture  of  all  concerned  in  the  ceremony. 

The  crowning  of  Petrarch  as  poet  laureate 
Was  the  great  event  of  his  life.  Thereafter 
he  visited  Parma,  where  he  learned  of  the 
death  of  his  great  friend,  Jacob  Colonna,  the 
Bishop  of  Lombes,  of  which  event  he  experi- 


Francis      enced  a  presentiment  in  a  dream.     Here  he 

Pctyci  vch  • 

received  a  stall  in  the  cathedral  as  arch- 
deacon, and  thereafter  devoted  his  time  to 
the  perfecting  of  his  epic. 

But  his  passion  drew  him  back  to  Avignon 
and  Vaucluse,  having  been  commissioned  to 
the  new  Pope,  Clement  VI.,  as  advocate  of 
the  Roman  people;  and  in  his  days  of  retire- 
ment he  wrote  his  three  imaginary  dialogues 
with  St.  Augustine,  wherein  he  sought  to  lay 
bare  his  feelings  and  motives  in  the  matter  of 
his  love  passion. 

The  business  which  Petrarch  was  to  man- 
age at  this  date  was  to  urge  the  new  Pope  to 
return  to  Rome  and  re-establish  the  papal 
throne  in  that  city.  His  colleague  in  the 
office  was  Niccolo  Gabrino,  better  known  as 
Cola  di  Rienzi,  afterwards  famous,  weak,  and 
unfortunate,  as  the  Roman  Tribune,  who 
commenced  by  attacking  the  nobles,  and 
ended  by  aping  them. 

The  Pope,  however,  notwithstanding  the 
kindness  with  which  he  behaved  towards  the 
Roman  deputies,  declined  to  take  the  step 
desired.  He  permitted  the  Jubilee,  however, 
which  had  theretofore  been  celebrated  only 
once  a  century,  to  be  proclaimed  for  1350. 

Petrarch  was  indignant  at  the  neglect  which 


Rome  received  at  the  hands  of  His  Holiness,     Francis 
and   gave   vent   to   his  feelings  in   abuse  of 
Avignon,  which   place   he   likened   unto  the 
Scriptural  Babylon,  styling  his  work  "Liber 
epistolarum  sinetitulo." 

Gherardo,  Petrarch's  brother,  became  at 
this  time  a  Carthusian  friar,  having  received 
an  impulse  to  the  act  from  a  visit  which  the 
two  brothers  made  to  a  convent.  It  is  said 
that  Gherardo  became  a  monk  because  of  grief 
at  the  loss  of  his  mistress  by  death. 

In  1342,  Petrarch  took  up  the  study  of 
Greek  with  Bernardo  Barlaamo,  a  Calabrian 
monk,  an  envoy  sent  by  the  Emperor  of  the 
East  to  the  Pope.  He  subsequently  continued 
the  study  under  Leonzio  Pilato,  a  pupil  of 
Barlaamo' s,  but  never  actually  acquired  any 
proficiency  as  a  Grecian. 

In  1343,  a  second  child,  a  daughter,  Fran- 
cesca,  was  born  to  Petrarch  by  his  every-day 
mistress;  Laura,  of  course,  being  only  the 
Platonic  titular  incumbent  of  his  heart.  This 
mistress  died  shortly  afterwards.  Francesca 
grew  to  be  an  estimable  woman,  and  proved 
a  great  comfort  to  her  father  in  his  old  age. 

In  this  year.  King  Robert  of  Naples  died, 
and  was  succeeded  by  his  granddaughter, 
Giovanna.  Petrarch  went  to  Naples  as  em- 
13 


Francis  bassador  to  represent  the  Pope,  and  also  to 
'^^^  '■  endeavor  to  obtain  the  release  of  some  adher- 
ents of  the  Colonna  family,  who  had  been 
imprisoned.  He  was  treated  by  the  Queen 
with  great  consideration,  but  otherwise  was 
unable  to  mitigate  the  tragic  disputes  between 
her  and  the  brother  of  her  murdered  hus- 
band, the  King  of  Hungary. 

After  a  short  sojourn  at  Rome,  under  the 
invitation  of  Jacob  H.,  of  Carrara,  he  visited 
Padua,  and  was  named  by  his  host  as  a  Canon 
of  Parma.  Here  he  wrote  his  treatise,  "  De 
viris  illustribus." 

In  1347,  the  dramatic  rise  of  Rienzi  at 
Rome  took  place.  Rienzi  was  elected  trib- 
une, and  the  popular  movement  received  the 
hearty  approval  of  the  Pope  (Clement  VI.), 
and  also  of  Petrarch.  But  Rienzi' s  vanity 
worked  his  own  destruction,  and  helped  to 
disgust  the  aristocratic  churchmen  with  lib- 
erty in  that  shape.  It  may  be  well  to  call 
attention  to  the  fact  that  the  ecclesiastics  of 
those  days  were  in  no  sense  political  abso- 
lutists, but  seemed  only  too  anxious  to  raise 
up  the  old  Roman  Republic  from  under  the 
ruins  of  the  Capitol. 

In  1348,  the  Pest,  so  eloquently  and  vividly 
pictured   by  Boccaccio,   broke  out  in   Italy. 

14 


It  travelled  finally  to  Avignon,  and  one  of  its  Francis 
shining  victims  was  Laura,  the  news  of  whose 
death  came  to  Petrarch  at  Verona,  where  he 
was  then  sojourning.  His  grief  for  the  death 
of  his  mistress  was  excessive,  and  to  it  we 
owe  some  of  his  tenderest  lyrics.  Indeed, 
the  poems  written  subsequently  to  the  death 
of  the  lady  are  remarkable  for  their  genuine 
feeling,  dignity,  and  beauty. 

In  1350,  he  went  to  Rome,  to  gain  the  in- 
dulgence promised  in  connection  with  the 
papal  Jubilee,  and  after  accomplishing  his 
duty,  tarried  at  Arezzo,  his  birthplace.  Here 
he  was  honored  with  an  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion, and  a  decree  was  entered  by  the  com- 
munity that  the  house  wherein  he  was  born 
should  be  ever  kept  in  its  then  condition,  as  a 
sacred  place. 

He  returned  to  Vaucluse  and  Avignon, 
where  he  remained  until  1352;  but  Laura 
was  dead:  he  never  had  liked  Avignon  save 
because  she  lived  there,  and  he  determined 
to  return  to  Lombardy. 

Here  he  entered  into  diplomatic  duties, 
mainly  for  the  Milanese  Visconti  ;  and,  as  ad- 
ditional employment,  he  was  placed  in  charge 
of  the  library  which  the  Archbishop  Giovanni 
had  established  at  Padua.  He  remained  in 
the  service  of  the  Visconti  ten  years. 


Francis  In  1354,  Charles  IV.,  Emperor,  invited  him 

to  his  court,  then  held  at  Mantua.  Charles 
had  been  a  great  admirer  of  Petrarch — in- 
deed, the  story  is  told,  that  in  1346,  when  at 
Avignon  with  his  father,  Charles  had  singled 
out  Laura  from  all  the  bevy  of  beauties  at 
the  luxurious  court  of  Avignon,  and  had 
then  and  there  kissed  her,  at  the  expense 
of  arousing  the  tender  jealousy  of  the  poet. 

Petrarch  was  very  free  in  his  remarks  to 
Charles  upon  royal  and  imperial  duties,  but 
the  latter  took  it  in  gentle  part  ;  spoke  ever 
in  the  most  enthusiastic  terms  of  the  poet, 
wishing  to  have  him  permanently  in  his  court; 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Empire  sending  the 
poet  a  patent  as  Count  Palatine. 

But  the  days  when  a  court  poet  was  an  en- 
viable profession  had  for  a  generation  gone 
by,  when  the  Hohenstauffen  dynasty  failed; 
and  Petrarch  possibly  did  not  feel  ambitious 
of  a  position  in  which  he  might  find  his  per- 
sonal dignity  shading  off  into  that  of  the 
court  jester,  and  he  therefore  clung  to  his 
loved  Italy,  and  after  a  lengthy  sojourn  at 
Milan,  he  practically  settled  at  Padua,  finally 
making  his  home  at  Arqua. 

But,  ever  restless,  and  yet  ever  seeking  re- 
pose, he  betook  himself  to  Venice,  then  a  city 
of  wonderful  growth,  civilization,  and  glory. 

16 


The  Venetians  honored  him  highly;  and,     Francis 


by  way  of  grateful  return,  he  presented  to  the 
state  his  library,  which  became  the  nucleus 
of  the  famous  collection  of  St.  Mark's.  An- 
other motive  for  the  gift  may  be  found  in  the 
fact,  that  to  a  restless  man,  ever  changing  his 
domicile,  the  transportation  of  such  treasures 
as  books  were  in  those  days  would  be  a  mat- 
ter of  great  anxiety.  The  Venetian  Senate 
also  appointed  a  palace  for  his  residence. 

At  this  time  his  relations  with  Boccaccio 
became  intimate.  He  used  to  wear  the  great 
prose  writer's  portrait  with  his  own  in  a  ring; 
and  Boccaccio  gave  him  the  works  of  St. 
Augustine,  Varro,  and  some  of  Cicero's,  be- 
sides copying  for  his  use,  with  his  own  hands, 
Dante's  great  poem.  Indeed,  the  connection 
between  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  is  one  of  the 
purest  friendships  ever  formed  between  two 
literary  men,  and  shows  to  great  advantage 
the  lack  of  small  envies  in  the  composi- 
tion of  both  men. 

Boccaccio  successfully  procured  the  rein- 
statement of  Petrarch  (1351)  as  a  citizen  of 
Florence,  from  which  place  he  had  been  from 
prenatal  days  a  hereditary  exile.  The  Flor- 
entines demanded  of  the  Pope  (Urban  V., 
1365)  that  the  poet  be  inducted  into  a  can- 
17 


Petrarch. 


Francis  onry,  either  in  Florence  or  Fiesole.  But  Pe- 
trarch,  although  appreciating  the  honor  and 
kindness,  declined  to  return,  and  ultimately- 
fixed  his  abode,  in  1370,  at  Arqua,  in  the 
Euganean  Hills,  a  short  distance  from  Padua. 
His  last  public  act  was  a  diplomatic  service  in 
the  interest  of  a  patron,  Francesco  Novello 
da  Carrara,  Prince  of  Padua,  to  settle  a  dis- 
pute with  Venice. 

After  finishing  the  mission  in  an  honorable 
but  not  altogether  successful  manner,  he  re- 
turned to  Arqua,  and  June  18,  1374,  was 
found  dead,  sitting  in  a  chair  in  his  library. 

His  funeral  was  conducted  with  all  the 
pomp  which  appertained  to  the  sepulture  of 
a  man  who  had  possessed  so  great  an  influ- 
ence as  ecclesiastic,  poet,  and  statesman,  his 
colleagues  of  the  diocese  joining  with  his 
friend,  the  reigning  Prince  of  Padua,  in  doing 
the  honors  of  his  burial. 

One  feels,  on  reviewing  Petrarch's  life  and 
works,  continually  reminded  of  Goethe.  Both 
had  been  educated  to  the  law,  but  abandoned 
it  as  a  business  full  of  unsatisfactory  sophistry. 

Both  lived  in  a  revolution  of  culture. 
Goethe  was  not  utterly  carried  away  by  the 
Storm-and-Stress  flood,  but  nevertheless  its 
current  shook  up  and  kept  in  movement  his 

18 


whole  being.       Petrarch  was   full  of  the  ex-     Francis 
citement  of  the  Revival  of  Letters. 

Both  found  their  bread-and-butter  exist- 
ence practically  dependent  upon  their  services 
to  petty  princes  in  fragmentary  nationalities; 
for  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  was  as  weak 
a  bond  in  Italy  in  the  days  of  Dante  and 
Petrarch  as  it  was  four  hundred  years  later, 
when  the  French  Revolution  burst  under  it 
and  blew  it  to  pieces. 

Both  were  lifted  into  notice  by  the  poetic 
expression  which  they  gave  to  their  mental 
and  moral  throes  and  tortures  as  unsatisfied 
lovers,  the  one  by  his  lyric  poetry,  the  other 
by  his  "  Sorrows  of  Werther."  Had  the  Ital- 
ian been  able  to  break  away  from  his  passion, 
or  had  the  German  suffered  his  to  become 
chronic,  the  parallel  would  be  complete,  so 
far  as  there  could  be  a  likeness  between  the 
hale  and  hearty  German  and  the  morbid 
Florentine. 

Both  were  honored  by  the  great  ones  of 
their  time,  and  were  characters  as  well  in 
political  as  in  literary  history;  and  if  we  ex- 
amine their  daily  lives  and  ambitions,  as  well 
as  their  successes  and  failures,  we  may  find 
much  in  the  glorified  sage  of  Weimar  which 
has  also  its  representative  trait  in  him  of 
Padua. 
19 


Francis  Although  somewhat  fanciful  and  strained, 

one  cannot  help  seeking  what  might  be  par- 
allelisms in  the  lives  of  Petrarch  and  Goethe. 
I  have  picked  out  a  few  facts  which  show  a 
certain  ratio  of  coincidence.  Goethe  has  left 
us  more  of  his  work  which  we  can  benefit 
by.  Much  of  Petrarch's  labor  was  of  neces- 
sity apt  only  for  the  time  in  which  he  lived; 
and  his  productions  were  formed  or  deformed 
in  accordance  with  the  mannerisms  of  that 
era.  Both  were  successful  in  their  worldly 
lives — a  compensation,  in  a  manner,  for  the 
pangs  of  despised  love  which  both  suffered 
early  in  life.  Here  I  might  refer  to  Napo- 
leon's famous  criticism  upon  Werther:  that  an 
unhappy  passion  was  not,  in  itself,  sufficient 
reason  for  suicide;  but  that  a  failure  in  one's 
career  must  also  supervene  to  warrant  such 
extreme  despair — in  brief,  that  Glory  and 
Fame  are  the  best  physicians  for  a  broken 
heart,  Petrarch  and  Goethe  having  success- 
fully submitted  to  the  treatment.  Had  Pe- 
trarch not  been  kept  alive  by  the  hopeful 
brilliancy  of  the  revival  of  letters,  and  encour- 
aged by  the  social  regard  paid  him  as  a 
cherished  favorite  of  the  Colonnas,  or  had 
Goethe  seen  no  grander  life  before  him  than 
that  of  a  snuffy  imperial  chancery  clerk,  the 
burthen   of   an    impossible   love  might  have 


seemed   to  both,  as  it  did  to  poor  Jerusalem, 
too  heavy  to  bear. 


Francis 
Petrarch. 


PETRARCH. 

Family  origin :  The  family 
of  Petrarch's  motherwas  prob- 
ably more  influential  than  that 
of  his  father,  Petraccolo.  Gar- 
zo,  Petrarch's  paternal  grand- 
father, had  something  like  the 
municipal  status  of  Textor, 
Goethe's  maternal  grandfa- 
ther. Petrarch's  mother  was 
a  beautiful  woman,  of  lovely 
disposition. 

Petrarch  is  destined  for  ju- 
risprudence, but  prefers  the 
classics  and  poets,  sufiering 
thereby  his  father's  displeas- 
ure ;  abandons  the  law  when 
left  to  his  own  devices. 

Finds  his  enjoyment  in  the 
society  of  elegant  ladies  of 
Avignon.  Fastidious  in  his 
dress. 


Petrarch's  dissipation  at 
Avignon. 

Petrarch's  era  the  regener- 
ation of  classical  learning  and 
rivalry  of  Latin  with  Tuscan. 

Laura  de  Sade. 

Sonnets  and  other  Tuscan 
poems  in  the  lifetime  of  Laura. 

Becomes  famous  by  reason 
of  his  Tuscan  poems. 


Makes  the  tour  of  France 
to  forget  his  passion. 


GOETHE. 

Maternally  descended  from 
Johann  Wolfgang  Textor, 
Schultheiss  of  Frankfort,  the 
family  (as  well  as  Goethe's 
father)  being  hereditary  g:ens 
de  la  robe.  Goethe's  mother 
was  as  brilliant  in  a  feminine 
way  as  Goethe  himself  in  his. 


Goethe's  father  resents  his 
son's  neglect  of  the  law. 
Goethe  barely  takes  his  doc- 
torate degree  (?),  and  never 
devotes  any  serious  attention 
to  the  subject  thereafter. 

"  Willst  du  genau  erfahren  was 

sich  ziemt 
So  frage  nur  bei  edlen  Frauen 

an." 
Goethe  in  his  j-oung  days  a 
thorough  fop. 

Goethe's  wild  days  at  Wei- 
mar. 

Storm  -  and  -  Stress  period  : 
the  crystallization  of  the  ele- 
gant modern  High  German. 

LoTTE  Buff  Kestner. 

The  Sorrows  of  Werther. 

The  wild  enthusiasm  of  Ger- 
many over  Werther.  Goethe's 
songs  marvels  of  lyric  perfec- 
tion. 


Leaves  Wetzlar. 
Swiss  journey. 


Francis  '■''  ^  protege  of  the  Colonna 

Petrarch      f^f^i^y'  ^id  the  bosom  friend 

ofGiacomo,  Bishop  of  Lombes. 

Enters  diplomatic  service 
under  Cardinal  Colonna  and 
Pope  John  XXII.;  subsequent- 
ly ends  his  career  as  minister 
of  the  Milanese  Visconti. 

Forms  a  liaison  with  some 
unknown  woman,  although  he 
still  celebrates  Laura  in  his 
verse.  Two  children  born  of 
the  connection. 

Receives  a  patent  as  Count 
Palatine  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire. 

Petrarch's  epic  and  his  re- 
publican ideas  a  failure.  The 
following  century  criticises  his 
Latin  style. 

Petrarch  greatly  honored  by 
the  Emperor  Charles. 

Laura  in  her  matronly  days 
comes  to  be  proud  of  the  glory 
conferred  on  her  by  Petrarch's 
verse,  and  affects  a  sentiment- 
al friendship  for  him. 

Boccaccio's  friendship. 

Old  age  at  Arqua.  Cultured 
ease  amid  books  and  objects 
of  art,  admired  by  the  great 
and  scholarly  of  his  time. 

Chaucer's  verdict  upon  Pe- 
trarch, as  recorded  in  "  The 
Gierke's  Tale." 


The  Stolbergs,  and  ultimate 
ly  Karl  August  of  Weimar. 

Appointed      Legationsrath, 
and  subsequently  promoted. 


Becomes  the  admirer  of  Bar- 
oness von  Stein,  and  has  a 
connection  which  ultimately 
ends  in  a  marriage  with  Chris- 
tiane  Vulpius. 

Is  ennobled. 


Goethe  wastes  his  energ>'  in 
erroneous  theories  as  to  nat- 
ural science. 

Napoleon's  interview  with 
Goethe:    "  Voila  jtn  hotnme." 

Lotte,  an  old  woman,  the 
mother  of  twelve  children, 
visits  Goethe. 


Schiller's  friendship. 

Old  age  at  Weimar.  An  ob- 
ject of  veneration  to  both  his 
countrymen  and  strangers. 

Thackeray's  "  7'a«^?<»i  vidi." 


In  reading  Petrarch's  letters  and  noting  his 
personal  doings,  one  is  struck  with  the  al- 
most insupportable  burthen  as  a  scribe  that 
must  have  pressed  upon  him.     It  would  not 


be  giving  too  strong  an  illustration  in  that  re-  Francis 
gard  to  suggest  the  sort  of  labor  which  a  lad  ^  ^^^''  ' 
of  to-day  would  undergo  if,  to  reach  a  liberal 
education,  he  were  compelled  to  slavishly 
copy  every  author  he  read  in  a  fair  engross- 
ing hand.  How  many  people  would  have 
favorite  authors  in  these  times  if  the  claim 
had  to  be  supported  by  laboriously  engross- 
ing them  on  parchment  ?  What  misery  the 
want  of  paper  must  have  caused!  Petrarch 
used  a  leather  jerkin,  which  he  treated  as  a 
sort  of  note-book  when  he  was  out  of  reach 
of  fitting  writing  materials,  which  garment 
was  still  in  existence  in  1527,  when  it  was  a 
prized  relic  in  the  hands  of  the  erudite  Car- 
dinal Sadoleto.  It  will  be  seen  what  respect- 
able precedent  one  has  for  soiling  one's 
cuffs  with  memoranda.  The  Vatican  has  his 
"Rime"  in  autograph — a  fair  copy.  At 
Florence  is  a  transcript  by  him  of  certain 
epistles  of  Cicero,  bound  in  wood,  with  iron 
clasps,  the  corners  of  copper,  the  identical 
book  which  so  often  fell  on  his  unlucky  left 
leg,  and  came  near  costing  him  its  amputation. 
He  forever  complains  of  the  unreliability 
of  copyists,  who,  in  those  days,  received  the 
abuse  which  we  now  lavish,  deservedly  or 
otherwise,  on  the  printers.  The  calligraphist 
was  an  artist  in  those  times,  as  was  also  the 
23 


Francis  illuminator,  one  of  whom  Dante  finds  in 
Purgatory.  Petrarch  was  an  elegant  scribe. 
His  handwriting  was  so  neat  and  clear  that 
when,  in  1501-2,  Aldus  Manutius  invented 
the  so-called  Italic  type  as  an  improvement 
upon  black  letter,  he  made  it  a  fac-simile  of 
Petrarch's  hand. 

It  is  not  always  that  the  grand  qualities 
inherent  in  a  man  are  the  basis  of  his  reputa- 
tion or  fame.  Petrarch  is  a  shining  example 
of  the  weakness  of  a  great  mind,  proving  the 
connecting  sympathetic  link  binding  to  him 
the  regard  and  affection  of  his  fellow-men  for 
a  period  of  centuries  in  duration. 

Laura  seems  to  have  been  a  grande  dame 
of  the  court  at  Avignon,  filling  the  part  of  a 
sort  of  local  queen,  with  no  particular  intel- 
lectual gifts,  probably,  but  with  a  complete 
appreciation  of  the  power  of  her  beauty,  and 
a  disposition  to  set  it  off  as  much  as  possible 
by  an  attention  to  dress  and  coquettish  re- 
quirements. 

She  recognized  the  advantage  of  having  a 
great  man  and  poet  grovelling  at  her  feet; 
and  it  seems  that  it  annoyed  her  when  she 
ran  the  risk  of  losing  him.  She  was  selfish 
about  it,  however.  She  granted  him  no  fa- 
vors.    She  snubbed  him  when  he  effervesced 

24 


into  indiscretion,   and  practically  and  crush-     Francis 

ingly  said,  "Messer  Petrarcha,  I  am  no  such 

woman." 

r  non  son  forse  chi  tu  credi. 

She  seems  to  have  been  remarkably  pro- 
lific ;  and  whether  she  loved  her  lord  or  no, 
she  was  most  of  the  time  in  that  state  in 
which  women  who  do  like  to  be.  There  are  ten 
or  eleven  children  mentioned  as  born  of  her 
marriage,  and  we  do  not  know  how  many  got 
away.  It  is  singular  to  notice  in  that  regard 
how  she  and  Lotte  Kestner,  Goethe's  great 
passion,  are  compeers.  Now,  the  spectacle 
of  poor  Petrarch,  as  it  were,  getting  in  his 
tributes  of  adoration  of  her  person  (^p'fb's 
exhaicstuni)  in  such  breathing-spells  as  were 
allowed  to  the  midwives,  might  draw  a  sneer 
from  lips  moulded  for  sarcasm. 

What  an  opportunity  would  have  been 
offered  for  the  great  modern  song-writer  of 
Germany  to  say  something  piquant,  had  he 
been  thrown  back  five  hundred  years,  in 
some  anachronistic  way,  and,  as  a  barbarian, 
have  met  the  demure  Laura,  swinging  through 
the  streets  of  the  Gascon  capital  on  the  arm 
of  her  noble  spouse, 

"  Eine  brave  schwangere  Frau  !  " 

Of  course,  we  must  acquit  Laura  of  any 
yielding  to  the  poet.  She  could  not  have 
25 


Francis      been   imitating  that  methodical  Roman  Em- 
Pctfci  fch 

press,   who,  when  asked  why,  when  she  had 

so  many  lovers,  her  children  wore  her  hus- 
band's features,  answered — 

Numquam  nisi  navi  plena  tollo  vectorem. 

Perhaps,  however,  if  Laura  had  possessed 
the  quality  of  ready  negotiability  in  the  mat- 
ter of  affections,  such  as  a  malign  Venus 
vested  in  Sordello's  Cunizza,  it  is  possible 
that  Petrarch  never  would  have  developed 
as  a  poet.  Gratified  love  stills  the  music  of 
men  as  effectually  as  of  birds.  It  will  be  re- 
membered how,  when  the  brother  and  the 
lover  of  Beatrix  Esmond  discovered  her  in- 
trigue with  the  Chevalier,  and  were  uneasy 
lest  she  had  already  yielded,  their  minds  were 
set  at  rest  by  the  discovery  that  the  Prince 
was  still  in  the  verse-writing  stage  of  the 
flirtation.  Petrarch  never  passed  from  it,  in 
spite  of  the  slanderous  hints  of  Madame 
Deshoulieres.     No;  Laura  was  good; 

"And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue  dignify 
A  woman,  so  she  is  good,  what  does  it  signify  ? " 

To  sentimental  souls,  I  must  frankly  ad- 
mit my  lack  of  inclination  to  crown  Laura 
with  the  customary  nimbus  of  angelic  phos- 
phorescence. She  doubtless  was  extremely 
good,  but  not  "too  good  to  be  unkind,"   at 

26 


least  to  her  passionate  admirer.  Of  course,  Francis 
as  supporters  of  the  ethical  dogma  of  wifely 
virtue,  we  ought  to  feel  a  glow  of  enthusiasm 
at  the  fact  that  five  centuries  ago,  under  the 
warm  sun  of  Provence,  in  a  very  dissipated 
capital,  and  with  a  crossish  sort  of  husband, 
a  woman  was  found  of  such  arctic  rigor  as  to 
return  only  an  iceberg  reflection  of  the  flam- 
ing glow  of  her  servant's  passion;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  we  may  be  allowed  to  cherish  a 
sneaking  regret  that  the  garland  of  poetic 
blossom— the  first  of  the  new  growth  of  modern 
European  civilization — should  have  brought 
no  response  from  the  lady  at  whose  feet  it  was 
laid,  save  the  throwing  in  the  poet's  eyes  of  a 
shovelful  of  the  ashes  of  her  flickering  con- 
jugal fires. 

It  was  a  practical  blessing  to  Petrarch 
when  the  Plague  eloped  with  her.  It  ended 
his  haunting  Provence  when  he  should  have 
been  in  Italy,  where  he  rightfully  belonged. 
For  my  part,  I  feel  a  sense  of  relief  when  I 
come  to  the  poems  which  record  Laura  as  in 
Heaven,  and  her  disturbing  and  baleful  influ- 
ence removed  from  the  gentle  canon's  ex- 
istence. 

We  may  pardon  Petrarch's  morbid  passion 
for  Laura.  It  was  a  disease  that  had  settled 
on  him  in  his  youth — a  rheumatic  disorder  of 
27 


Francis  his  blood,  which  kept  him  ever  in  unrest. 
But  his  other  idols  were  equally  objects  of 
mistaken  homage.  He  believed  that  Virgil 
and  his  Latin  predecessors  and  successors 
of  the  classical  age  were  sacred  prophets.  He 
worshipped  their  sandal-strings.  He  attempted 
to  bring  back  their  language,  not  as  a  philo- 
logical inquiry,  not  as  material  in  an  archaic 
museum,  not  as  a  stage  costume,  but  as  a 
matter  of  daily  habit.  He  was  not  alone  in 
his  error.  Dante  and  the  preceding  genera- 
tion were  equally  enthusiastic — equally  wrong. 
Ciceronian  Latin  and  Roman  Freedom  seemed 
to  all  the  bright  intellects  of  that  day,  whether 
pope  or  king,  priest  or  layman,  matters  to 
struggle  and  strive  after,  as  the  theoretical 
siunmum  boniini  of  earthly  polity  and  culture. 

His  talk  was  full  of  allusions  and  illustra- 
tions from  Roman  and  Grecian  history.  It 
forcibly  reminds  one  of  the  orators  of  the 
French  Revolution;  and,  possibly,  also  of  the 
classical  mannerisms  of  some  of  our  own 
Revolutionary  fathers'  stilted  effects  in  speech, 
which  have  long  ago  been  abandoned  to 
school-boy  rhetoric. 

Petrarch,  like  many  an  enthusiastic  student 
since  his  time,  was  carried  off  his  feet  by  the 
voluble  graces  of    Cicero.     He  esteemed  it 

28 


true  statesmanship  to  adopt  Cicero's  opinions.  Francis 
He  did  his  best  to  write  Ciceronian  Latin.  ^  ^^^''  ' 
He,  amidst  those  grim  ItaUan  tyrants,  who 
had  more  of  Catihne  than  of  Augustus  in 
their  composition,  actually  tried,  as  the  acme 
of  genius  to  be  attained,  to  be  an  orator  such 
as  was  Cicero,  forgetful  that  Cicero  himself, 
in  his  vanity  as  a  Roman  Consul,  was  prob- 
ably more  conceited,  inwardly,  over  his  petty 
military  success,  and  his  doubtful  title  of  hn- 
perator,  than  over  his  most  brilliant  civic  vic- 
tories. Petrarch's  friend,  Dandolo,  the  Doge 
of  Venice,  gave  him  a  rough  rebuke  in  that 
regard.  But  if  Cicero  was  a  failure  when  in 
the  glow  of  life  and  action,  with  a  Roman 
Senate  behind  him  as  clients,  and  a  populace 
in  front  charmed  by  his  wealth  of  diction, 
it  would  not  be  likely  that  Petrarch,  as  a  me- 
diaeval sorcerer,  by  sprinkling  his  fickle  ashes 
and  muttering  his  silvery  phrases  all  over 
Italy,  could  invoke  the  old  Roman  phantoms 
of  glory.  And  in  so  blindly  taking  Cicero 
as  a  model,  Petrarch  did  what  he  him- 
self reprehends :  His  opinions  were  more 
like  pictures  of  Roman  bass-reliefs  than 
like  flesh-and-blood  descendants  of  Roman 
heroes. 

But  even  Petrarch's  mumbling  of  Cicero- 
nian expressions  was  not  free  from  criticism. 
29 


Francis  Writing  a  dead  language  is  like  solving  a 
mystic  fifteen  puzzle — a  matter  of  ingenious 
fitting  of  mosaic.  Petrarch  was  dab  at  it; 
but  the  succeeding  century  grew  more  expert 
at  the  game;  and  Petrarch's  stilted  hexam- 
eters became  a  matter  of  about  as  much 
literary  regard  as  John  Tzetzes'  epic  balder- 
dash, made  out  of  the  splinters  of  Homer. 
A  work  in  a  dead  language  can  no  more  be 
imitated  than  a  stained-glass  window  can  be 
restored  from  its  fragments,  after  the  art  of 
staining  glass  has  been  lost. 

Petrarch's  Italian  verse  has  long  been  held 
above  criticism.  Perhaps  we  feel  a  half- 
monotonous  weariness  at  the  uniformity  of  a 
collection  of  sonnets  on  one  subject,  and  that 
a  cloying  one,  when  any  one  of  the  poems  by 
itself  would  excite  nothing  but  simple  ad- 
miration. But  one  should  not  read  the  poet 
in  that  way.  The  proper  mode  to  appreciate 
Petrarch  is  to  dawdle  under  the  shade  of  a 
tree  ;  to  sleepily  open  to  any  chance  page, 
and  to  stop  after  turning  the  leaf  A  sonnet 
is  like  an  intaglio  gem:  you  must  not  expect 
heroic  breadth  therein;  it  must  be  examined 
with  half-shut  eyes  to  bring  out  its  beauties. 
Many  of  Petrarch's  poems  are  as  fantastic 
and  involved  as  a  parti-colored  twist  of  silk. 

30 


But  to  put  a  bundle  of  thoughts  into  so  small     Francis 
a   compass  as  fourteen    lines    is  a  task  like 
stowing  a  lady's  robe  into  a  traveller's  hand- 
bag :    there    must   inevitably  be  some  little 
wrinkling  of  ideas. 

For  the  same  reason,  the  difficulty  of  trans- 
lating into  a  foreign  language  a  sonnet  which 
is  closely  packed  in  the  original  becomes  in- 
surmountable. Besides,  the  day  of  the  Eng- 
lish sonnet  ended  with  the  death  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  The  poets  of  that  era  spoke  a 
language  more  fitted  for  the  purpose  of  ren- 
dering Petrarch,  and  they  were  entitled  to 
take  more  liberties  with  the  idiom. 

Dante's  great  epic  was  sparingly  com- 
mended by  Petrarch,  who  could  not  fail  to 
note  its  beauties,  and  who  was  the  soul  of 
fairness  as  a  critic,  even  when  heavily  handi- 
capped with  the  delusions  of  his  day;  but 
it  was  in  the  common  tongue,  and  to  him 
it  was  admirable  only  with  reservations. 

In  Petrarch's  old  age,  he  produced  his 
"Trionfi. "  Here,  perhaps,  by  the  influence 
of  Boccaccio,  he  takes  Dante  somewhat  as  a 
model.  That  these  efforts  were  excellent  of 
their  kind,  may  be  seen  from  the  fact  that 
so  many  modern  poets  have  followed  in  his 
wake,  and  have  adopted  analogous  forms  for 
their  poetic  art. 


Francis  The  great  wealth  of  new  themes  shining  in 

the  epics  of  barbarian  Germany,  which  had 
found  expression  in  the  preceding  century, 
awoke  Uttle  interest  in  Petrarch.  The  music 
of  the  Minnesingers  and  the  cycles  of  Ro- 
land and  Arthur  worked  itself  into  Italian  lit- 
erature two  centuries  later,  when  Boiardo, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso  found  the  legends  worthy 
subjects  for  their  verse.  Petrarch  was  un- 
consciously attempting  to  bring  back  the 
modes  of  thought  and  action  of  the  ancient 
world,  forgetful  that  that  world  could  not  be  in 
harmony  with  Christian  tradition  and  Christian 
chivalry.  Only  a  Christian  gentleman  could 
have  suffered  or  been  victimized  by  such  a  pas- 
sion as  Petrarch  entertained  for  Laura.  A 
Greek  or  Roman  would  not  have  understood 
it  or  its  morbid  pains  ;  and  Petrarch's  political 
and  literary  views  were  out  of  place  as  much 
as  was  the  tribuneship  of  Rienzi,  decked  with 
the  gewgaws  of  mediaeval  knighthood.  For 
these  reasons,  Petrarch  might  well  complain, 

"  Solco  onde,  e  'n  rena  fondo  e  scrivo  invento." 

A  striking  instance  of  the  mode  in  which 
il  gran  canonico  was  absorbed  in  his  Nir- 
vana of  classical  contemplation  may  be  drawn 
from  the  scanty  facts  tending  to  prove  his  in- 
tercourse with  Chaucer. 

32 


There  can  be  no  moral  doubt  but  that  Francis 
Chaucer  knew  Petrarch  personally.  They 
were  both  in  France  many  times,  where  they 
might  have  met.  They  were  both  courtiers. 
They  both  had  an  enthusiasm  for  scholarship. 
Whether  they  met  then,  or  whether  Chaucer, 
when  on  his  visit  to  Genoa,  specially  visited 
the  Italian,  it  does  not  appear,  I  do  not  im- 
agine that  a  visit  by  the  hearty,  beef-eating 
Valethcs  Noster  to  the  fruit-eating  poet  of 
Arqua  would  have  been  very  cheery  as  a 
feast-hunting  episode  ;  but  the  only  reason 
that  such  a  visit  could  not  have  occurred  lies 
in  the  fact  that  Petrarch  himself  does  not  re- 
cord it.  Still,  on  the  other  hand,  would  he 
have  mentioned  the  visit  of  a  man  who  was 
the  servant  of  a  barbarous  monarch,  and 
whose  only  claim  to  notice,  literary-wise,  was 
his  cultivation  of  an  unknown  and  uncouth 
dialect,  that  was  half-bastard  French  ? 

I  think  that  we  must  accept  Landor's 
"  Imaginary  Conversations,"  Boccaccio  and 
Petrarch,  and  then  Chaucer  as  an  intervener, 
as  conventional  truths,  whether  direct  evi- 
dence to  support  the  idea  is  ever  found  or 
not. 

Petrarch's  patriotism  was  of  the  sturdiest 
order.  His  hopes  were  for  the  return  of  the 
Pope  to  Rome,  to  the  end  that  the  horde  of 
33 


Francis  petty  tyrants  who  swarmed  over  Italy,  and 
e  rare  .  ^^^^^  jj.  ^j^^  bloody  ground  of  their  aimless 
and  endless  brawlings,  might  be  overawed  by 
a  strong  central  power  at  Rome.  He  was 
not  averse  to  a  temporal  emperor  sitting  side 
by  side  with  a  spiritual  pontiff ;  but  he  wished 
that  emperor  to  be  the  right  hand  of  Italy, 
and  to  fight  its  battles  for  a  return  to  suprem- 
acy of  Roman  ideas  and  the  Roman  race,  as 
exponents  of  civilization. 

Petrarch  was  a  man  of  strong,  clear,  almost 
sceptical  mind.  He  was  a  disbeliever  in  ju- 
dicial astrology  and  alchemy — superstitions 
which  clung  to  western  civilization  far  into 
the  eighteenth  century.  He  saw  through  the 
quackery  of  what  its  professors  were,  in  those 
days,  pleased  to  style  the  medical  profession; 
and  by  his  railleries  at  its  expense,  he  won 
the  animosity  of  the  guild  as  deservedly  as 
did  Moliere  three  centuries  later. 

He  was  so  scientifically  intelligent  that  he 
won  from  Innocent  VI.,  the  ignoramus  among 
the  Avignon  popes,  the  reputation  (in  those 
days  a  dangerous  one)  of  being,  like  his 
cherished  model,  Virgil,  a  sorcerer  ;  and  tak- 
ing one  line  as  a  prophecy,  we  might  almost 
fancy  him  foretelling  the  discovery  of  America : 

' '  Che  '1  di  nostro  vola 
A  gente  che  di  la  forse  1'  aspetta." 

34 


To  an  American,  there  is  something  pecu-     Francis 


Harly  attractive  in  the  spectacle  of  the  great 
poet  looking  over  the  Atlantic,  straining  his 
eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  another  world, 
bathed  in  the  glories  of  the  setting  sun.  A 
hundred  years  later,  Luigi  Pulci  borrowed 
and  expanded  this  idea  of  Petrarch.  Charles 
Sumner,  in  his  "  Prophetic  Voices  About 
America,"  notices  Pulci,  but  overlooks  Pe- 
trarch's precedence.  Pulci,  however,  might 
have  learned  at  the  same  source  as  Columbus. 

Had  Petrarch  sought  riches  by  the  road  of 
mercantile  enterprise  —  and  those  were  the 
days  of  mercantile  power  —  he  might  have 
founded  a  family  that  would  have  rivalled  the 
Medici,  and  his  declining  age  would  have 
been  spent  in  an  old-gentlemanly  fever  of  en- 
thusiasm over  antique  gems  and  coins,  and 
amid  a  collection  of  chipped  torsos  from  his 
pet  Roman  Imperial  days. 

Had  he,  like  Sordello,  worn  a  cuirass  in- 
stead of  a  cassock,  and  flourished  a  sword 
instead  of  a  censer,  he  might  have  sprung 
into  power  as  a  coyidottiere,  and,  as  either  the 
Pope's  trusty  man-at-arms  or  the  Emperor's 
legate,  have  won  for  his  beloved  Italy  that 
peaceful  unity,  prosperity,  and  stability  as  a 
nation  which  have  ever  seemed  a  mirage  of 


Petrarch. 


Francis      glory  that  has  shifted  away  from  every  ItaUan 
e  tar  i.   ^^^^-.^q^  Jj^  every  age,  as  he  has  attempted  to 
grasp  and  detain  them. 

Petrarch  was  a  great  man — above  such 
vanity  as  caused  Rienzi  to  burst  like  the  fabled 
frog — sincere  and  loving  in  his  friendships,  a 
genuine  broken-hearted  lover,  who  never  took 
revenge  upon  his  prudish  mistress,  either  in 
word  or  deed,  and  who  did  not  sit  down  and 
wither  into  intellectual  apathy  because  she  was 
not  kind.  He  stood  out  from  his  age  as  pure 
and  symmetrical  in  character  as  an  antique 
column  left  standing  amid  the  ruins  of  his 
own  dear  Rome,  after  Gothic  devastations,  to 
mark  a  trysting-place  for  lovers,  and  a  surface 
whereon  to  engrave  the  date  of  the  regener- 
ate birth  of  classical  and  philosophical  learn- 
ing in  modern  Europe  out  of  the  mingled 
ashes  of  monkish  scribes  and  gallant  bards  of 
Provence,  and  the  epitaph  of  the  last  and 

GREATEST  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL. 

It  would,  of  course,  be  a  piece  of  presumption 
to  attempt  any  list,  either  of  editions,  annotators, 
or  biographers  of  Petrarch.  Marsand,  we  believe, 
collected,  long  ago,  a  "  Biblioteca  Petrarchesca  " 
of  nine  hundred  volumes  (now  at  Paris);  and  the 
list  has  been  steadily  increasing.  The  best  that 
can  be  done,  therefore  (and  all  that  is  necessary  in 
an  essay  like  the  present),  is  to  note  some  of  the 
more  curious  or  more  popular  works  or  editions 
which  a  student  of  Petrarch  may  find  referred  to  in 
his  reading. 

I.— LIST   OF   PUBLISHED    WORKS   OF   PE- 
TRARCH. 

WRITTEN   IN   TUSCAN. 

ist.  Sonnets  ;  written  in  the  lifetime  of  Laura, 
227  ;  after  her  death,  90.  This  is  exclusive 
of  six  sonnets  discovered  and  published 
by  G.  Veludo,  and  one  found  in  the  French 
National  Library  by  M.  L.  Podhorsky,  and 
the  one  (alleged  to  be  by  Petrarch)  found 
in  Laura's  tomb. 

2d.  Canzoni  ;  written  in  Laura's  lifetime,  21  ; 
after  her  death,  8. 

3d.  Sestine  ;  written  in  Laura's  lifetime,  S;  after 
her  death,  i. 

4th.  Ballate  ;  written  in  Laura's  lifetime,  6;  after 
her  death,  i. 

37 


Francis       5th.     Madrigals  (all  in  Laura's  lifetime),  4. 

Petrarch,  gt]-.  Triumphs,  begun  in  1357,  left  unfinished  at 
the  death  of  the  poet.  Love,  Chastity, 
Death,  Fame,  Time,  Eternity. 

LATIN    POEMS. 

1st.      Africa  (commenced  in  1341;  not  finished  for 

years  after);   XII  books. 
2d.      Bucolicum  carmen. 
3d.      Epistolae  ;   III  books. 
4th.     Septem    Psalmi   Penitentiales  ;   novem  con- 

fessionales. 

ETHICAL    OR    PHILOSOPHICAL   WORKS. 

ist.  Secretum  de  Contemptu  Mundi ;  III  dia- 
logues.    De  Conflictu  Curarum  Suarum. 

2d.      De  Avaritia  Vitanda. 

3d.  De  Otio  Religioso  ;  II  books  ;  written  in  con- 
sequence of  a  visit  to  his  brother  in  a  Car- 
thusian convent. 

4th.     De  Vera  Sapientia  ;  II  dialogues. 

5th.  De  Remediis  Utriusque  Fortunae ;  com- 
menced in  1358. 

6th.  De  Vita  Solitaria  ;  II  books;  written  for  the 
Bishop  of  Cavaillon  (Vaucluse);  com- 
menced as  a  sketch  in  1346  ;  finished  in 
1366. 

7th.  De  Sui  Ipsius  et  Aliorum  Ignorantia  ;  a  re- 
buke to  Atheism.     1370. 

8th.     Epistola  ad  Posteritatem. 

POLITICAL   DISCUSSIONS. 

•    1st.      De  Officiis  et  Virtutibus  Imperatoris. 

2d.  Exhortations  to  Attempt  the  Recovery  of 
Liberty  ;  to  restore  peace  to  Italy. 

38 


3d.      Ad  Quosdam  ex  Illustribus  Antiquis.  Francis 

4th.     De  Republica  Optime  Administranda ;   writ-     Petrarch. 

ten  for  the  Prince  of  Padua.     {1373.) 
5th.     Liber   Epistolarum  sine  Titulo  (concerning 

tlie  Papal  sojourn  at  Avignon). 
6th.     Letters  ;  to  Humbert,  Dauphin  of  the  Vien- 

nois  (1339);  to  the  Emperor  Charles  (1350); 

to  Dandolo,  Doge  of  Venice  (1351). 

HISTORICAL. 

ist.     Epitome  Illustrium  Virorum. 
2d.      De  Rebus  Memorandis;  IV  books. 
3d.      Commentarii  de  Vita  Caesaris  (formerly  as- 
cribed to  Celsus). 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

ist.     Itinerarium  Syriacum ;    written   on  account 

of  the  Crusades. 
2d.      Contra  Medicum  Objurgantem. 
3d.      Invectiva  Contra  Galium. 
4th.     Griseldis  (translation  from  Boccaccio). 

EPISTOLAE. 

1st.      De  Rebus  Familiaribus ;  VIII  books. 
2d.      De  Rebus  Senilibus  ;  XVI  books. 
3d.      On  various  subjects. 

II.— EDITIONS. 

INCUNABULA. 

Tuscan  poems,  first  edition,  Venice,  1470  (4to), 
sold  at  the  Pinelli  sale  in  1789  for  ;^27  6s.  Rome, 
1471  ;  Padua,  1472  ;  Rome,  Milan,  and  Venice, 
1473  ;  Basle,  1474  ;  Bologna  (Filelfo),  1476  ;  Brus- 
sels, 1477  ;  Venice  (black  letter),  1478  ;  Venice, 
1481 ;  Venice  (black  letter),  1484  ;  Venice,  14S6-88 ; 
Padua,  1490 ;  Venice,  1492-94. 

39 


Francis  printed  after  a.  d.  1500. 

Petrarch.  (pilelfo)  Venice,  isoc^isis  ;  Aldus  (Bembo, 
editor),  1501,  '14,  '21,  '33,  '46.  Giunti,  Florence, 
1510,  1515,  or  1522  ;  Paganino,  Venice,  1516;  Da 
Bologna,  1516;  Gesualdo,  1533,  also  1553. 

Velutello,  Venice,  1545,  '47,  '60 ;  Bruccioli, 
Venice,  1548 ;  Daniello  da  Lucca,  Venice,  1549  ; 
Dolce,  Venice,  1554  ;  Bembo,  Lione,  1574  ;  Castel- 
vetro,  Basil.  1582 ;  with  illustrations  of  Porro, 
Venice,  1600;  Tassoni,  Modena,  171 1  ;  Tassoni, 
Muzio,  and  Muratori,  Venice,  1722  ;  Padua  (with 
portrait  of  author),  1732 ;  Zapato  de  Cisneros, 
Venice,  1756  ;  Muratori,  Modena,  1762  ;  Bodoni, 
Parma,  1804;  Pisa  (portrait  by  Morghen),  1805; 
Marsand,  Padua,  1819-20;  variorum  notes,  Padua, 
1837 ;    Leopardi,  1847. 

Miniature  Ed.,  Pickering,  London,  1822. 

Microscopic  Ed.,  Ongania,  Venice,  1879. 

OTHER   WORKS. 

Griseldis,  Cologne,  1470  ;  Secretum,  Strasburg 
(«.  flf.),  first  edition;  De  Vita  Solitaria,  Strasburg 
(«.  d.);  Triuniphi,  Parma,  1473;  Glicino,  Vicenza, 
1474;  Omnia  Opera,  Basil,  1481-96. 

Lives  of  the  Popes  and  Emperors,  Florence, 
1478 ;  Book  of  Famous  Men,  Verona,  1476 ;  Bu- 
colics, Da  Imola,  Venice,  1516;  Basil  Edition 
(Latin  and  Italian),  1554-81  ;    Geneva,  1601. 

IIL— BIOGRAPHY. 

Villani,  Vergerio,  the  two  Aretinos,  Polintono, 
Manetti ;  all  of  whom,  Campbell  says,  were  more 
eulogists  than  anything  else. 

Squarciafico ;  Velutello  ;  Lelio  dei  Lei  (the 
descendant    of    Petrarch's    friend);      Niccolini; 

40 


Gesualdo;  Beccadelli;  Tommasini;  Muratori 
Bimard;  Bandini;  De  Sade,  1764;  Arnaiid 
Mehus;  Baldelli;  Levati;  Marsand;  Guingu^n^ 
Menage,  1690;  Niceron,  1734. 

M^zi^res,  1868;  Quinet,  1857;  Planche,  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  June,  1847;  Gazzera,  Turin 
Academy  of  Science;  Meinart,  1794;  Bibliog- 
raphy, Rosetti,  Trieste,  1828. 


Francis 
Petrarch. 


IV.— ENGLISH   TRANSLATIONS. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey' ;  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thornden ;  Sir  Thomas  Wyat,  the  elder.  (See 
Harrington's  Nugae  Antiquae.) 

Tryumphes  of  Fraunces  Petrarcke,  by  Henry 
Parker,  Knyght,  Lord  Morley,  London,  John 
Cawood  (4to),  («.  d.),  52  leaves;  only  four  copies 
known. 

Phisicke  against  Fortune,  Thomas  Twyne,  1579. 

Visions  of  Petrarch,  by  Edmund  Spenser. 

Triumphs,  by  Mrs.  Anna  Hume,  Edinburgh, 
1644. 

Seaven  Penitential  Psalmes,  Geo.  Chapman, 
1612.  (Very  scarce.  See  Collins'  Bibliographical 
Account  of  Early  Eng.  Lit.) 

Life  of  Petrarch  (with  some  translations),  Tytler 
(Lord  Woodhouselee),  1810. 

Sonnets  and  Triumphs,  by  Geo.  Henderson, 
1S03. 

Triumphs,  Rev.  Henry  Boyd,  1807. 

Selections,  by  the  Translator  of  Catullus  (Nott), 


Sonnets,  Wrangham,  1817. 

Petrarque    et    Laure    (romance),    Madame  de 
Genlis,  London,  1819. 

4' 


Francis  Sonnets,  Lord  Charlemont,  Dublin,  1822. 

Petrarch.  Translations,  Barbarina  Wilmot  (Lady  Dacre), 
1836.  Lady  Dacre  is  the  sweetest  of  all  modern 
translators. 

Sonnets,  Susan  Wollaston,  1841. 
Odes,  by  Macgregor,  1851. 
Bohn's  Illustrated  Library,  1859. 

v.— ENGLISH    BIOGRAPHIES,    SKETCHES, 
AND    ESSAYS. 

Gibbon,  Decline  and  Fall,  chapter  LXX. 
Susannah  Dobson,  1775. 
Penrose,  sketch,  1790. 
Sir  Wm.  Jones. 

Foscolo,  Essays  (also  No.  48  of  Quarterly), 
1823. 

Montgomery,  Lives  of  Literary  Men  of  Italy, 

1835- 

Thos.  Campbell,  1841. 

Alger,  1867;  Brydges  (Imaginative  Biography), 
1820 ;  Buckley  (Dawning  of  Genius)  ;  Dele- 
pierre  (Historical  Difficulties);  Greene  (Historical 
Studies),  1850. 

Macaulay,  Later  Essays ;  Mrs.  Shelley. 

Reeve,  (1878);  Fraser's  Magazine,  Vol.  LXIV; 
McMillan's  (Miss  C.  M.  Phillimore),  Vol.  XXVIII; 
Contemporary  Review,  1874  (July);  Athenaeum, 
July,  1874 ;  Nat.  Q.  Review,  June,  1873. 

Mrs.  Jameson  (Loves  of  the  Poets);  Landor 
(Imaginary  Conversations). 

Higginson,  in  the  Atlantic,  1867,  Sunshine  and 
Petrarch. 
-    Longfellow,  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe. 


42 


ALFRED  TENNYSON, 
POET  LAUREATE. 

"Mein  Lied  ertont  der  unbekannten  Menge  ; 
Ihr  Beifall  selbst  macht  meinem  Herzen  bang." 

|ENNYSON  enjoys  at  least  a 
titular  popularity  in  America. 
If  that  needed  confirmation, 
the  unremitting  piracy  of  his 
works  would  furnish  it.  In 
one  or  more  forms,  they  may  be  found  in  all 
polite  households  ;  charming  ladies  the  world 
over  will,  if  urged,  gratify  you  by  singing  his 
lyrics;  clever,  penniless  young  bachelors 
everywhere  will,  when  jilted,  mouth  stanzas 
of  "  Locksley  Hall";  and  chaps  with  ill-bal- 
anced hearts,  who  have  become  unhappily 
spooney  about  their  friends'  wives,  will  half 
imagine  themselves  Lancelots  or  Tristrams; 
while  village  Guineveres  are  as  plentiful  as  vil- 
lage Cromwells,  and  not  always  as  guiltless  in 
their  particular  pose.  Has  not  the  poor,  pale 
corpse  of  the  Lily  Maid  been  bandied  about 
among  us  of  the  Pacific  Coast  as  recklessly 
as  if  it  were  a  mummy  in  a  museum  or  a 
"stiff"  on  an  express  train?  Who  shall  say 
43 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


that  we  do  not  know  our  poet  intimately  ? 
and  what  is  there  that  a  prosy  essayist  out 
here  can  tell  us  in  that  behalf? 

And  yet,  one  feels  that  there  is  a  certain 
sediment  of  niefiance  pervading  the  half- 
cultured  strata  of  the  American  reading  pub- 
lic, which  hinders  the  Englishman's  verse 
from  thorough  assimilation  with  the  popular 
American  nature.  It  is  almost  as  if  a  taste  for 
Tennyson  were  an  exotic,  requiring  green- 
house fastidiousness  to  protect  it  from  rude 
republican  northers. 

This  literary  symptom  (not,  however,  ex- 
actly confined  to  Tennyson)  has  been  growing 
apparent  in  the  last  twenty  years.  Former 
generations  not  only  courted  British  culture, 
but  found  it  a  necessity.  To-day  there  is 
arising  an  actual  aversion  to  British  ideas  — 
at  least,  in  what  may  be  called  the  superficial 
literary  populace. 

The  fact  is,  Great  Britain  is  becoming  for- 
eign to  us.  Like  the  Irish,  our  literary  state 
is  conspiring  for  Home  Rule,  and  clamors  for 
a  parliament  of  its  own.  We  dislike  to  be 
thought  to  speak  the  English  rather  than  the 
American  language.  Even  in  our  pronuncia- 
tion and  modulation,  there  is  a  sibboleth  ap- 
parent; and  we  gird  at  the  Britisher  who  has 
not  our  speech,  however  provincial  it  be,  just 

44 


as  country  louts  are  amused  at  a  stranger's 
costume  or  special  habits  of  body.  Usages 
once  common  to  both  lands  are  fast  wearing 
out  with  us;  and  a  time  would  seem  to  be 
coming  when  English  and  American,  once 
identical,  will  be  to  each  other  as  Japanese 
unto  Chinese. 

An  evidence  of  the  divergence  between  the 
two  countries  is  furnished  by  the  fading  popu- 
larity (regard  being  had  to  the  increase  of 
population  and  relative  greater  percentage  of 
general  readers)  of  English  authors  once  as 
eagerly  conned  in  America  as  in  the  land  of 
their  domicile.  This  partly  arises  from  the 
confused  ideas  of  superficially  educated  Amer- 
icans as  to  British  customs,  usages,  and  local 
terms  —  a  defect  which  renders  the  reading 
of  British  writers  a  matter  of  painful  thought, 
more  or  less  clogged  with  ignorance  and  un- 
certainty as  to  the  allusions.  I  do  not  think 
Scott  as  popular  in  America  as  formerly; 
Burns  is  actually  archaic;  and  Hogg  requires 
more  than  a  glossary,  even  to  smartish  people 
who  are  ordinarily  swift  to  catch  the  slang 
current  in  bar-rooms  and  mining  camps,  as 
crystallized  in  local  or  humorous  journalism. 

All  this  is  a  weakness  to  be  deplored.  If  our 
literature  had  become  so  broad  and  deep,  by 
reason  of  its  Longfellows,  its  Hawthornes,  its 
45 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Irvings,  its  Howellses,  and  its  Holmeses,  there 
might  be  ground  for  national  pride  in  our  liter- 
ary progress;  but  the  generation  that  knows 
not  Joseph  also  forgets  Joseph's  brethren  and 
sympathizers  on  this  side  the  ocean;  and  is 
apt  to  be  satisfied  with  thought,  poetry,  or 
humor  scenting  of  no  higher  taste  than  might 
be  bred  in  the  cabin  of  the  Arkansas  Traveller. 
The  literature  chosen  to  supplant  English 
models  must  be  better,  not  worse,  than  what 
has  been  cast  upon  us  by  British  descent. 

Then,  too,  it  happens  that,  while  we  are 
moving  farther  from  British  influence,  we  are 
drawing  closer  to  lands  which  foster  the  alien- 
ation. Our  young  folks  are  running  the  risk 
of  knowing  more  about  Zola  than  about 
Thackeray;  and  our  aesthetic  ladies  are  more 
interested  in  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  than  in 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield's  Olivia.  And  yet 
they  might  draw  a  personal  benefit  from  the 
good  taste  and  elegance  of  Goldy,  which  their 
quavering  knowledge  of  a  foreign  tongue 
must  ever  be  a  barrier  to  their  finding  or  ap- 
preciating in  Gautier. 

If,  therefore,  I  sermonize  a  while  about  an 
author  whom  all  ought  to  appreciate,  gentle  or 
simple,  rich  or  poor,  learned  or  ignorant,  it  is 
but  to  repeat  an  Old  -World  echo  of  instruc- 
tion which  distance  and  a  murky  literary  at- 

46 


niosphere  have  almost  weakened  to  unintelli- 
gibility.  I  would  like  to  discuss  Tennyson 
in  the  light  in  which  cultivated  people  in  his 
own  country  regard  him  and  his  works,  as 
shown  by  commentators  in  magazines  or  pub- 
lished volumes. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate, 


The  life  of  Alfred  Tennyson  has  not  been 
one  of  startling  events.  There  are  no  prom- 
inent facts  in  his  career  hurtled  about  as  liter- 
ary gossip  which  would  render  his  biography 
a  dramatic  poem.  Save  for  the  fact  that  he 
is  a  poet,  and  poet  laureate,  his  existence 
has  been  passed  in  the  elegant  obscurity 
affected  by  cultured  Englishmen  who  keep 
out  of  politics. 

His  poetry,  in  one  sense,  is  not  egoistic,  and 
he  has  shrunk  from  breaking  up  the  privacy 
of  his  life  to  build  the  materials  into  the  struc- 
ture of  his  poetic  reputation. 

But,  for  all  that,  everything  that  we  need  to 
know,  or  perhaps  ought  to  wish  to  know,  of 
Tennyson  is  in  his  writings,  if  we  will  but 
' '  read  between  the  lines. ' '  For  that  matter, 
I  would  challenge  any  man  with  the  slightest 
claim  to  frankness  to  write  anything  at  all 
without  confessing  some  portion  of  his  nature. 
I  remember  how  a  gentleman  of  old  Califor- 
nia days  came  to  his  death  by  shipwreck. 
47 


Alfred  His  general  reputation  had  been  of  decidedly 
PQgl  '  misanthropic  acerbity.  None  gave  him  credit 
Laureate,  for  especial  warmth  of  feeling.  Yet  with 
death  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  away,  he 
attempted  an  autographic  will,  of  half  a  dozen 
lines,  which,  by  its  kindness  of  tone  towards 
children,  strangers  to  his  blood,  and  towards 
collaterals  by  the  preciseness  of  his  chirography 
and  punctuation,  by  the  aptness  of  terms,  and 
the  fact  that  one  of  them  was  Scotch,  gave 
indirectly  the  materials  for  a  biography  of  a 
frosty  but  kindly  nature,  bred  in  the  Land  o' 
Cakes,  in  a  lawyer's  office,  thence  transferred 
to  journalist  duties  on  a  distant  shore,  of  as 
heroic  a  soul  as  one  would  expect  to  dwell  in 
the  breast  of  even  the  vieux  ■}nilitaire  who 
sank  with  him.  In  like  manner,  one  might 
compose  a  charming  history  of  Tennyson  by 
stringing  together  verses  from  his  poems  ; 
and  one  might  also  branch  out  and  show  not 
only  what  has  been,  but  what  might  have 
been — a  feature  wanting  in  most  biographies. 
One  might  mistake  a  detail  here  and  there,  it 
is  true;  but  the  general  truth  would  be  told. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  August  5, 
1809,  at  Somersby,  a  village  in  Mid-Lincoln- 
shire. Even  Americans  have  heard  of  the  Lin- 
colnshire Fens ;  and  every  poem  of  Tennyson's 

48 


youth  tells  of  some  feature  of  the  scenery  of    Alfred 
the  land,  the  verdure  and  foliage  of  meadow,     p^^^-^    "' 
marsh,  and  wood,    the  brook  that  flows  by    Laureate. 
Somersby,  the  mill  upon  it, 

"The  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean  ridges   roaring  into   cata- 
racts." 

For  here  the  German  Ocean  has  full  sweep, 
and  seems  to  enjoy  its  gambols.  It  is  in 
Lincolnshire  that  the  poet  has  laid  the  scene 
of  his  latest  drama,  "The  Promise  of  May." 

Tennyson's  father,  Dr.  George  Clayton 
Tennyson,  was  rector  of  the  parish  of  Somers- 
by. The  poet's  mother  was  the  daughter  of 
the  Rev.  Stephen  Fytche. 

Tennyson  comes  of  gentle  stock.  Indeed, 
some  of  the  collateral  branches  must  have  been 
quite  tenacious  and  precise  in  the  matter  of 
their  claims  in  that  regard.  There  are,  I  be- 
lieve, extinct  baronies  lying  around,  here  and 
there,  in  the  family  history.  Those  English- 
men are  proud  of  nothing  so  much  as  spring- 
ing from  an  old  county  family  ;  and  I  have 
no  doubt  but  that  Tennyson  has  a  proper 
weakness  that  way,  befitting  a  man  who  need 
not  be  his  own  grandfather,  and  who  is  grand- 
father to  others.  Of  course,  he  has  his  quiet 
thrusts  at  pride  of  birth  ;  but  behind  them 
remains,  evidently,  the  feeling  which,  while 
49 


Alfred  covered  by  indifference  to  the  pomps  of  her- 
Poet  '  aldry,  borders  on  satisfaction  that  he,  also, 
Laureate,    might,  had  he  willed  it  so, 

"Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  roofs 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree." 

The  entire  Tennysonian  household  were 
poets — "a  nest  of  nightingales,"  as  one  of 
their  friends  calls  them.  There  was  Charles, 
who  afterward  took  the  surname  of  Turner, 
Frederick,  Septimus,  Edward,  Horatio,  and 
Arthur  ;  and  there  were  two  sisters  who  like- 
wise made  girlish  attempts  at  verse. 

One  can  readily  picture  the  youth  of  the 
poet  spent  in  an  English  rectory,  swarming 
with  sisterly  and  cousinly  maidens ;  such, 
doubtless,  as  TroUope,  and  the  artists  who 
have  illustrated  Trollope,  have  depicted  for 
us.  No  ordinary  nature  could  pass  through 
that  sort  of  training  without  a  certain  wincing 
softness  that  would  give  tone  to  his  whole 
after-existence.  It  may  therefore  be  noted, 
that  all  of  Tennyson's  heroines,  of  whatever 
race,  time,  or  clime,  are,  morally,  just  such 
people  as  one  would  likely  meet  in  an  English 
country  house  on  long,  summer  days,  book 
in  hand,  or  in  a  parish  church  at  Christmas- 
tide,  helping  the  curate  with  the  evergreens, 
or  flirting  in  demure  style  with  the  lads  home 
from  college  or  London. 

50 


Tennyson's  father  was  a  man  of  accom- 
plishments— more,  perhaps,  than  of  scholar- 
ship or  of  theological  propensities.  He  was 
an  athlete,  a  musician,  a  linguist.  It  would 
seem  that  the  poet  learned  Italian  to  some 
extent — possibly  induced  by  his  father.  In 
those  days  there  was  a  breeze  of  revival  of 
interest  in  Italian  letters,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  England  had  become  a  refuge  for  a 
number  of  lettered  revolutionists,  such  as 
Foscolo,  Panizzi,  and  Rossetti;  and  Tenny- 
son's short-lived  friend  Hallam  was  gliding 
into  the  Tuscan  groove  of  culture,  with  no 
mean  promise  of  future  effectiveness  and 
honor  in  that  direction. 

Tennyson's  status  in  life  pointed  vaguely  to 
the  Anglican  Church  as  his  possible  vocation  ; 
but  it  was  fortunate  that  he  escaped  being  a 
parson.  I  fancy  that  his  brother  Charles 
would  have  lived  a  more  rounded  and  com- 
plete life  had  he  never  taken  orders.  Besides, 
one  never  sees  "  Reverend"  before  an  author's 
name  without  expecting  something  goody- 
goody  and  narrow.  Alfred  might  have  been 
driven  into  the  inns  of  court;  but  one  shud- 
ders at  the  thought  that  the  brow  now  decked 
with  laurel  should  have  run  the  risk  of  per- 
spiring in  a  horse-hair  wig,  although  poets, 
and  true  ones,  have  sat  on  the  bench  and 
51 


Alfred 
Tennyson^ 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred  been  its  ornaments.  Testibus,  Sir  William 
Poet  '  Jones,  Talfourd,  and,  for  that  matter,  many  a 
Laureate.  Scotch  laird.  And  is  there  not  Browning-, 
who  by  rights  ought  to  have  been  a  Q.  C. , 
chopping  up,  say,  the  law  of  remainders  in  a 
court  of  equity,  instead  of  knitting  his  brows 
and  frowning  in  a  lord-chancellor  way  on  high 
Parnassus  ? 

The  only  other  employment  in  which  Ten- 
nyson, according  to  our  present  lights,  would 
not  have  cut  a  moderate  figure,  would  have 
been  the  army.  What  a  jovial  mess  member 
he  would  have  been!  How  he  would  have 
shirked  drill  and  pipe-clay!  What  rollick- 
ing camp  songs  he  would  have  composed 
and  sung!  What  a  popular  colonel  he 
would  have  grown  to  be !  And  how  re- 
ligiously and  simultaneously  he  would  have 
hated  and  abused  the  French,  and  have 
seen  that  the  mess  port  was  of  the  right 
body  and  flavor!  He  would  have  been  just 
in  time  to  go  out  to  the  Crimea  and  to  take 
part  with  his  Six  Hundred  there,  instead 
of  singing  their  exploits  in  slippered  feet  at 
home,  where  his  big  bass  voice,  fit  to  call  a 
squadron  to  advance,  was  utterly  thrown 
away  on  Boots  and  the  butler.  (There  was, 
by  the  way,  another  Englishman  who  would 
have  graced  any  branch  of  the  service,  but 

52 


whose  life  was  wasted  on  art  —  poor  George 
Cruikshank.) 

It  might  here  be  noted  that  when  certain 
Crimean  heroes  came  home,  and  were  called 
to  receive  their  academic  brevets  from  Ox- 
ford, 1855,  in  the  shape  of  doctorates  in  juris- 
prudence, Tennyson  was  joined  with  them  in 
the  honors  for  his  poetic  gallantry. 

No;  I  don't  think  that  "  Major-General  Sir 
Alfred  Tennyson,  K.  C.  B.,"  etc.,  etc.,  would 
sound  badly.  But  if  it  were  the  present  fact, 
what  a  loss  to  us  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
who  have,  lo,  these  many  years,  enjoyed  and 
stolen  his  work  so  remorselessly! 

Tennyson's  physical,  mental,  and  moral  na- 
ture and  needs  are  those  of  a  man  enjoying 
active,  every-day  life,  with  a  right  to  take 
long  furloughs  from  it,  and  retreat  into  his 
library  as  occasion  demands;  apt  to  linger  in 
cosey  discussion  ' '  across  the  walnuts  and  the 
wine,"  when  the  ladies  had  cleared  out;  to 
sit  on  a  stile  and  remark  a  colt's  points;  to 
take  a  languid  interest  in  turnips  and  crop 
rotation;  and  to  have  interchange  of  proper 
courtesies  with  svispected  poachers  on  the  sub- 
ject of  wood-craft,  or  with  the  pretty  farmers' 
daughters  touching  their  swains.  In  Amer- 
ica there  is  somehow  a  lack  among  literary 
men  of  that  sort  of  catholicity  of  intercourse; 
53 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poel 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


and  my  idea  of  the  blessed  Longfellow  has 
always  been  of  one  who  had  the  New  England 
college  tutor  thoroughly  injected  into  his 
marrow  at  an  early  age,  and  who  would  have 
been  fearful  of  saying  or  doing  anything  hos- 
tile to  varnished  boots  or  academic  discipline. 

The  two  brothers,  Charles  and  Alfred,  were 
early  sent  to  the  Louth  grammar  school.  It 
was  here  that  in  March,  1827,  they  jointly 
published  a  small  volume  of  verse,  entitled 
"  Poems  by  Two  Brothers."  It  was  stated  in 
the  preface  that  the  pieces  contained  in  the 
volume  had  been  written  by  them  between 
their  fifteenth  and  eighteenth  years. 

This  little  collection  has  become  a  great 
bibliomaniac  rarity.  The  late  Rev.  Dr. 
Chapin,  of  New  York,  was  said  to  possess 
the  only  copy  ever  brought  to  America. 

Criticism  of  verse  attempts  by  young 
school-boys  would,  of  course,  be  idle;  but 
the  fact  of  the  publication  may  simply  be 
marked,  as  showing  at  how  early  an  age  and 
with  what  apparent  success  the  poet  had  put 
in  practice  his  studies  of  the  laws  of  English 
rhythm. 

In  1829,  the  two  poetic  lads  went  to  reside 
at  Cambridge,  whither  young  Hallam  had 
preceded  them  some  months,  with  whom 
Alfred  contracted  the  warmest  of  friendships, 

54 


strengthened,  as  it  was  to  be,  by  an  engage-    Alfred 
nient  between  one  of  the  poet's  sisters  and    poet        ' 
Hallam.  Laureate. 

Within  half  a  year  from  his  entry  at  Trin- 
ity College,  Alfred  was  declared  the  success- 
ful competitor  for  the  Chancellor's  Gold  Medal 
for  English  verse — the  subject  imposed  being 
Timbuctoo. 

The  name  recalls  the  famous  witty  and 
successful  attempt  of  Sydney  Smith  to  find  a 
rhyme  for  it,  and  invokes  something  of  the 
grotesque  in  our  feelings  ;  but  if  we  consider 
what  gorgeous  speculations  were  then  rife 
as  to  the  resources  and  condition  of  Central 
Africa,  and  the  fabulous  tales  in  vogue  about 
its  cities  and  their  treasures,  it  would  seem 
natural  enough  that  a  question  of  such  great 
geographical  interest  should  have  been  sug- 
gested as  the  subject  for  verse. 

A  couple  of  years  before,  an  adventurous 
British  officer  had  lost  his  life  in  attempting 
to  gain  personal  knowledge  of  Timbuctoo. 

Prize  poems  have,  I  think,  been  rather 
unjustly  abused.  But  if  they  have  no  other 
raison  d'etre,  one  might  now  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  Tennyson  had  buckled  down  to  the 
task  of  competing  for  a  prize,  and  had  suc- 
ceeded so  well  that  the  effort  became  the 
hinge  of  his  poetic  reputation.    And  it  would 

55 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


appear,  too,  that  there  was  a  brilHant  set  of 
students  at  Cambridge  in  those  days,  when 
Tennyson  bore  the  banner  of  success,  and 
young  Hallam  and  Thackeray  were  among 
the  defeated  candidates.  In  looking  over  the 
names  of  eminent  Englishmen  who  at  that 
time  resided  at  Cambridge,  as  undergraduates 
or  otherwise,  one  cannot  help  thinking  that 
there  was  there  transpiring  what  we  West- 
erners would  call  an  "intellectual  boom." 
It  is  not  necessary  here  to  discuss  the  mer- 
its of  "Timbuctoo";  but  it  is  not  out  of 
place  to  call  the  attention  of  San  Franciscans 
to  the  way  in  which  the  young  Cantab,  who 
had  never  felt  the  shudder  of  an  earthquake, 
hits  off  the  salient  suggestions  elicited  by  the 
experience : 

"As  when  in  some  great  city  when  the  walls 
Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces  thronged 
Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  sound." 

There  are  but  three  lines;  but  the  phenom- 
enon is  fully  described. 

The  AthcJiceum  declared  that  the  poem 
"indicated  first-rate  poetical  genius,  and 
would  have  done  credit  to  any  man  that  ever 
wrote. ' ' 

In  1830,  Tennyson  published  a  volume 
entitled  "Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical."  Of  this 
collection  there  appeared  in  the  Westminster 

56 


for  January,  1831,  a  review,  written,  it  is  said, 
by  John  Stuart  Mill,  wherein,  after  defining- 
the  duty,  influence,  and  power  of  a  true  poet, 
the  following  prophetic  passage  occurs: 

' '  If  our  estimate  of  Mr.  Tennyson  is  cor- 
rect, he,  too,  is  a  poet;  and  many  years  hence 
may  he  read  his  juvenile  description  of  that 
character,  with  the  proud  consciousness  that 
it  has  become  the  description  and  history  of 
his  own  work." 

Leigh  Hunt,  also,  in  the  Tatler,  gave  a 
favorable  review  of  the  volume,  in  conjunction 
with  one  published  simultaneously  by  Charles 
Tennyson;  and  Arthur  Hallam  wrote  a  notice 
of  his  friend's  venture,  which  appeared  in  the 
Englishma7i'  s  Magazine. 

Kit  North,  in  his  breezy  way,  clinched  the 
strain  of  eulogy  in  Blackwood' s  (May,  1832), 
mixing  kind  encouragement  with  a  certain 
amount  of  critical  banter.  In  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  latter  notice,  Tennyson  wrote 
the  lines,  "Musty,  Fusty  Christopher,"  which 
appeared  in  a  second  volume  published  in 
the  winter  of  1832-33,  by  the  poet-publisher, 
Moxon. 

This  second  volume  was  discussed  by  Cole- 
ridge in  Table -Talk ;  and  the  veteran  brings 
the  singular  charge  against  the  young  poet 
of  a  mismanagement  of  his  metres,  recom- 
57 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred        mending  him  to  stick  to  two  or  three  com- 

Poe"'^^^"'    ^^^^^  ones.      Now,  Coleridge  knew  all  about 

Laureate,    rhythm,  and  meant  to  be  a  fair  critic;  but  in 

the  light  of  Tennyson's  rhythmical  history, 

we  cannot  fail  to   suspect  the  justice  of  all 

poetical  criticism. 

As  adverse  utterances,  that  of  the  Quar- 
iej'Iy  (July,  1833)  is  the  most  noticeable.  It 
found  all  the  weak  chords  in  Mr.  Tennyson's 
lyre;  and  spoke  distrustfully  and  scornfully 
of  many  others,  since  acknowledged  to  be 
strong.  The  Quarterly,  in  after  years,  man- 
fully retracted  its  hasty  opinion. 

But  out  of  the  collections  thus  far  published 
by  the  young  man,  enough  pieces  stood  their 
ground  to  entitle  the  author  to  take  decided 
rank  as  a  poet. 

The  year  1833  was  the  year  of  young 
Hallam's  death — that  Hallam  who  had  been 
more  than  a  brother  to  a  poet  who  knew 
the  worth  of  sympathetic  fraternity;  and  to 
Hallam's  memory,  seventeen  years  later, 
Tennyson  unveiled  the  most  graceful  literary 
monument  that  could  be  raised  to  the  mem- 
ory of  a  friendship  cut  short  by  death. 

The  time  had  now  come  when  the  poet 
could  not  be  allowed  to  rest  confidingly  upon 
ancient   models,   or   to  find  a  large  enough 

58 


world  in  the  limits  of  a  college  quadrangle.     Alfred 
He  had    become  a   man;    and   whatever  life    p"g"'^^^"' 
men  of  his  day  led  would  be,  if  not  his  own,     Laureate. 
at  least  a  strong  agency  in  marking  out  his 
pathway  for  him.     The  most   "  offish"  of  us 
are  affected  to  some  extent  by  those  about 
us;  and  we  cannot  wholly  avoid  the  vices  of 
our  day  and  generation,  even  if  we  would. 

If  any  one  would  like  to  frame  an  idea  of 
qicasi  fine  literary  society  in  England  between 
1830  and  1840,  he  has  only  to  study  the  ways 
and  doings  of  coteries  such  as  Lady  Blessing- 
ton's,  and  simultaneously  to  read  Disraeli's 
novels.  From  our  standpoint,  it  was  a  very 
good  sort  of  life  to  keep  out  of;  and  Tenny- 
son, in  spite  of  some  quavering  motions, 
must  have  remained  on  the  utter  rim.  It  was 
a  time  when  men  had  pallid  brows  and  long 
hair  and  brocade  dressing-gowns,  and  were 
suspected  of  corsets,  and  had  a  glory  of  soft, 
white  hands,  innocent  of  blisters  and  gauded 
with  rings;  a  reign  of  Pelhams  and  Count 
d'Orsays  in  drawing-rooms;  a  time  of  An- 
nuals, and  Books  of  Gems,  and  Keepsakes, 
and  Friendship's  Offerings  —  all  illustrated 
with  plates  and  engraved  titles,  and  to  which 
contributed  languourous  gentlemen,  whose 
fathers  had  sparred  with  Jackson  and  fought 
with  bargemen,  and  whose  sons,  in  their 
59 


Alfred 
Tennyso?i, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


subsequent  day,  took  to  club-swinging  and 
foot-racing;  dainty  volumes,  patronized  by 
impossible  copper-plate  beauties,  who  wrote 
watery  verse,  and  flirted  with  the  Melbournes 
and  the  Endymions  of  the  hour. 

I  have  said  that  Tennyson  somehow  escaped 
all  that  —  the  glamour  whereof  led  captive 
the  soul  of  the  future  tory  leader,  and  made 
him,  as  a  reward  for  his  appreciative  worship, 
like  Joseph  in  Egypt,  a  ruler  among  strangers 
to  his  blood.  But  Tennyson  did  contribute 
to  the  annuals;  and  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
bits  of  his  verse,  afterwards  embodied  in 
"Maud,"  first  saw  light  in  one  of  those  fash- 
ionable collections. 

But  Tennyson  must  have  studied  in  one 
direction — that  of  nature — with  no  careless 
attention.  No  poet  can  effectively  pursue 
his  calling  if  deprived  of  the  essentials  of  out- 
door life  and  pure  air.  He  needs  the  odors 
and  harmonies  of  the  country  to  guide  him 
in  tuning  his  harp.  He  cannot  shut  himself 
up  in  a  city  without  more  or  less  vulgarizing 
his  muse,  and  rendering  his  imagery  paltry. 
He  cannot  bar  out  the  world  of  sensuous 
force  by  closing  his  library  door  without 
growing  fastidious  and  finical.  What  would 
Scott  have  been  but  for  his  stumbling  strolls 
through  the  heaths,  with  Maida  at  his  heels  ? 

60 


What  sort  of  verse  would  Byron  have  written,     Alfred 
had  he  not  found  the  sea  a  place  to  revel  in  ?     /j^""'*'     '' 
I  think  the  real  obstacle  which  shunted  Lamb    Laureate. 
off  the  poetic  highway  was  his  intense  cock- 
neyism.      He  had  it  in  him  to  be  a  poet,  and 
would  have  been  one,  had  he  been  compelled 
to  rest  his  eyes  upon  beds  of  wild  flowers 
instead  of  shop  windows  and  book-stalls. 

Tennyson,  all  his  life,  has  continued  the 
habit,  which  he  had  commenced  in  his  Lin- 
colnshire boyhood,  of  illustrating  his  verse 
with  suggestions  from  nature.  He  is  so  fond 
of  the  trick,  and  is  so  full  of  surprises  of  that 
kind,  that  his  critics  have  taken  to  carping 
at  the  accuracy  of  his  facts.  Bayard  Taylor 
speaks  of  some  of  his  similes  as  inapt,  and 
instances  where  he  compares  the  rippling, 
broken  gurgles  of  a  girl's  laughter  to  a  wood- 
pecker's tapping.  I  fancy  it  is  a  question, 
not  of  the  tapper,  but  of  the  sounding-board. 
Some  kinds  of  woods  when  struck  give  an  al- 
most liquid  response.  Another  critic  objects 
to  the  poet's  making  a  dog  leap  from  the 
water  to  the  land,  and  shake  his  ears  as  he 
recovers  his  balance.  This  critic  says  a  dog 
does  not  leap  but  climbs  ashore,  and  waggles 
his  entire  body  before  attending  to  his  drip- 
ping ears.  Now,  it  is  true  that  if  the  dog  were 
6i 


Alfred  in  the  act  of  swimming,  he  would  not  leap; 
Poet  '  ^^^  '^^^  were  a  shallow  brook,  he  would  make 
Laureate,  a  quick  jump  from  the  one  element  to  the 
other;  and  if  he  had  pendent  ears  they  would 
likely  be  wet  when  his  back  would  be  dry. 
Indeed,  the  jump  itself  would  shake  his  ears. 
I  would  hardly  be  willing  to  admit  that  Ten- 
nyson was  an  inaccurate  or  near-sighted  ob- 
server in  matters  of  natural  phenomena;  and 
he  is  certainly  possessed  of  an  immense  fund 
of  forest-and-field  wisdom. 

Tennyson  did  not  issue  any  new  volumes, 
after  Hallam's  death,  until  1842,  although,  as 
before  mentioned,  verses  by  him  appeared  in 
the  annuals. 

Those  who  have  read  the  lately  published 
volume  of  letters  to  and  by  Miss  Mitford 
will  remember  the  energetic  scorn  which 
she  evinces  for  those  who  write  but  do  not 
read.  Tennyson  had  no  such  conceit  of  self- 
evolution.  He  has  written  sparingly  and 
read  diligently. 

The  nine  years  of  comparative  silence  were 
undoubtedly  with  him  a  period  of  study.  His 
mental  structure  was  being  "fed  with  lime," 
drawn  from  the  nourishment  furnished  by 
masters  in  poetry;  and  he  had  completely  ac- 

62 


quired  his  virile  strength  by  cautious  exercise 
of  his  powers,  when,  in  1842,  he  pubHshed  a 
new  edition  of  his  poems  in  two  volumes  (re- 
published the  same  year  by  Ticknor,  Boston), 
from  which  it  may  be  shown  that  by  that  time 
he  had  adopted  the  essential  features  of  his 
mature  style,  whereon  the  success  of  his  liter- 
ary career  has  been  based. 

The  epic  idyll  is  there  represented  by 
the  "  Morte  d' Arthur "  ;  "  Dora"  stands  as  a 
model  of  his  other  idyllic  efforts ;  ' '  Locksley 
Hall,"  "Ulysses,"  "The  Day-Dream,"  "Sir 
Lancelot  and  Queen  Guinevere,"  "Break, 
Break,  Break,"  and  "Come  not  when  I  am 
dead,"  are  all  typical  in  their  several  manners 
of  Tennyson. 

Tennyson  was  recognized  thenceforth  as  a 
poet.  It  must  not,  however,  be  lost  sight  of 
that,  literary-wise,  his  lines  had  fallen  in 
pleasant  places.  His  antecedents  were  all  of 
cultured  dignity.  He  had  been  the  honored 
nursling  of  a  venerable  academy  of  learning. 
His  friends  were  brilliant  in  their  ways  of 
thought,  and  stood  manfully  by  him.  The 
reviews  had  been  kind  to  him  in  the  main, 
and  the  portals  of  the  temple  of  fame,  if  not 
staring  open,  were  at  least  ajar  for  his  coming. 

In  1845,  Wordsworth,  too  great-minded 
to  be  afraid  of  his  newly  created  peer,  pro- 
63 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


nounced  Tennyson  to  be  "  decidedly  the  first 
of  our  living  poets. ' ' 

Had  Tennyson  followed  in  the  wake  of 
Keats,  with  whom  at  an  early  period  he  was 
frequently  compared,  he  would  only  have 
intensified  his  model  until  his  exaggerations 
became  defects.  Keats  might  have  been,  per- 
haps, a  good  companion,  but  not  a  master. 
The  secret  to  rival  Keats  in  his  special  class 
of  merits  would  best  be  solved  by  poring 
over  the  writers  of  the  days  of  Queen  Bess. 
These,  the  Laureate  seems  in  his  youth  to 
have  studied  and  understood.  Here  I  would 
note  the  precocity  of  the  poet.  With  most  of 
us,  the  thoughts  of  great  authors  need  to  be 
subjected  to  successive  winnowings  through 
our  minds  at  intervals  of  years.  We  do  not 
obtain  all  that  is  precious  at  one  reading  or  at 
one  period  in  our  lives.  But  Tennyson  would 
seem  to  have  extracted  every  beauty  of  style 
at  one  sifting,  and  to  have  deftly  worked  every 
grain  of  knowledge  so  acquired  into  his  own 
mass. 

Gladstone  regards  Tennyson's  Homeric  and 
Dantesque  studies  as  at  one  time  scanty;  but 
Gladstone  has  been  cultivating  the  Homeric 
field  for  more  than  fifty  years,  with  a  fine- 
toothed  rake;  and  any  ordinary  knowledge 
on  the  subject  would  to  him  probably  appear 

64 


defective.  I  am  afraid,  too,  that,  however  Alfred 
strong  may  be  the  Premier's  friendship  for  poeY^^"' 
the  Laureate,  the  former  does  not  quite  follow  Laureate. 
the  latter  throughout  his  entire  poetic  laby- 
rinth. There  is,  however,  one  piece  of  evi- 
dence in  favor  of  Gladstone's  slur  upon  Ten- 
nyson's Homeric  shortcomings  :  when  the 
poet  makes  Ulysses  address  his  old  compan- 
ions with  a  request  to  sail  with  him  again  out 
into  the  west,  had  he  had  Homer  in  his  mind, 
he  would  have  been  aware  that  all  those  brave 
souls — Greenwich  Pensioners,  so  to  speak — 
had  gone  to  Hades;  and  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  ship  a  fresh  crew  of  merely  ordi- 
nary seamen.  Probably  he  preferred  to  err 
with  Dante,  who  knew  not  the  Odyssey,  rely- 
ing for  the  success  of  his  paraphrase  of  the 
Italian  upon  its  being  marvellously  true  to 
Homeric  spirit,  if  faulty  in  incident. 

Mr.  Stedman,  in  his  elaborate  chapters  upon 
Tennyson,  seeks  to  draw  a  general  parallel 
between  the  Victorian  age,  of  which  Tenny- 
son stands  forth  as  the  poet,  and  the  Ptolemaic 
or  Alexandrian  period  of  Greek  literature.  It 
does  seem  to  me  strange  that,  in  this  age  of 
critical  literary  research  and  revamping  of  old 
material,  more  has  not  been  done  to  bring 
into  direct  popularity  the  authors  of  that  cul- 
tivated era.  Fox,  I  think,  is  said  to  have 
65 


Alfred        preferred   the  ' '  Argonautica  ' '  of  Apollonius 

PoeF^^"'    ^^   Homer   himself.      Macaulay  admired  the 

Laureate,    poem ;  and  it  would  be  no  ungraceful  task  for 

some  ambitious    young  scholar  of  to-day  to 

attempt  a  metrical  translation  of  the  work. 

Tennyson,  in  dawdling  about  old  country 
houses  and  their  libraries,  seems  to  have  fallen 
upon  many  an  old  volume  of  the  classics  not 
usual  in  university  examinations.  Mr.  Sted- 
man  thinks  that,  because  there  was  a  new 
edition  of  Bion  and  Moschus  in  print  during- 
Tennyson's  Cambridge  years,  his  attention 
must  have  been  thereby  attracted  to  those 
authors.  It  may  be  so;  but  one  would  pre- 
fer to  believe  that  he  rummaged  the  authors 
out  of  some  old  collection  in  cracked  covers, 
worm-eaten  and  mouldy,  led  thereto  by  some 
apt  quotation  which  lingered  in  his  mind  as  a 
.sample  of  what  a  search  would  bring  forth; 
and  that,  having  hunted  down  his  author,  he 
devoured  him,  more  with  literary  hunger  than 
academic  or  scholarly  ambition.  There  are  in 
Tennyson  refined  echoes  of  Ouintus  Calaber, 
Tryphiodorus,  and  other  dust-covered  old 
worthies,  editions  of  whose  works  were  pub- 
lished in  days  when  men  had  more  time,  and 
did  more  than  merely  pretend  to  read. 

There  is  one  elegance  which  Tennyson 
.seems    to     have    caught    early    from    Virgil. 

66 


Sainte-Beuve  joins  with  Fox  in  admiring  Vir- 
gil for  his  power  to  infuse  his  own  originality 
into  his  most  exact  imitations  of  his  Greek 
predecessors.  From  Virgil,  Tennyson's  mode 
of  paraphrase  conies,  employed  almost  always 
by  him  in  a  most  felicitous  way. 

He  has  an  art,  too,  of  adopting  the  epithets 
already  applied  to  objects  by  older  writers — 
the  giving  to  things,  as  it  were,  their  chris- 
tened names.  And  it  has  a  very  happy  effect 
upon  the  mind  of  the  reader.  For,  if  he  be 
familiar  with  the  godfather,  a  double  set  of 
imagery  is  thrown  upon  his  mental  retina — 
or  rather,  like  a  dissolving  view,  the  old  idea, 
recalled  momentarily  by  the  epithet,  fades 
softly  into  the  glory  of  the  new  thought 
brought  in  by  the  later  poet. 

It  would  be  curious  to  gather  together  a 
vocabulary  of  all  the  classical  phrases  for 
which  Tennyson  has  furnished  pat  English 
equivalents. 

Although  transferring  to  English  passages 
from  Latin,  Greek,  and  Italian  poets  seems 
to  have  been  a  recreation  for  which  Tennyson 
has  a  particular  affection,  it  is  not,  however, 
original  with  him.  From  Chaucer  down,  it 
has  been  common  with  English  poets — learned 
by  them  from  Italian  writers,  perhaps,  and 
orignated  with  the  Latins.  The  famous  lines 
67 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred        Qf  Catullus,  in  his  epithalaniium  upon  Man- 
Tennyson,  ,    t   i-  rr     r,       ■  •   m  i 

/*oei  "US  and  Julia — '■'Ut  fios  in  septis    — proba- 

Laureate.  j^jy  taken  originally  from  Sappho,  have  been 
appropriated  or  imitated  by  Tasso,  Ariosto, 
Jacques  Gohorry,  Spenser,  and  Jonson,  to 
say  nothing  of  out-and-out  translations  by 
others.      Byron  has  the  same  taste. 

Tennyson  has  used  more  than  once  a  pas- 
sage from  Homer — 

"  Where  falls  not  hail  or  rain  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly — " 

which  he  found  that  Lucretius  had  used  be- 
fore him;  and  which  Dante  has  also  worn  as 
a  gem — "a  jewel  five  words  long."  * 

Americans  of  casual  Latinity  cannot  quite 
appreciate  how  vividly  the  verse  of  Virgil 
lingers  in  the  minds  of  English  lads,  be  they 
ever  so  indolent  at  study. 

With  the  English  gentleman,  Virgil  is  a 
sacred  book  —  verbally  inspired.  There  is 
nothing  in  America  similar  to  the  reverence 
hitherto  paid  it  by  the  Briton  of  culture, 
unless,  perhaps,  the  devotion  of  the  old- 
fashioned,  square-shouldered  American,  in 
the  good  days  gone  by,  to  the  English  Bible. 
(I  fancy  that  it  is  to  the  familiarity  thereby 

*  "  Perche  non  pioggia,  non  grando,  non  neve 
Non  rugiada,  non  brina  piu  su  cade—" 

Furg.  xxi. 

68 


obtained  with  the  genuine  English  tongue  that 
we  are  indebted  for  any  purity  of  speech  left. 
As  for  Webster's  spelling-book,  we  may  thank 
it  for  the  metallic  phonograph  sounds  which 
bewray  us  all  over  the  world.  Why  could  it 
not  have  been  fated  that  some  Scotchman  or 
Irishman  should  have  struck  the  tuning-fork 
of  our  American  orthoepy  ?  ) 

I  doubt  if  Virgil  would  not  be  the  first 
thought,  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  of  every 
Englishman  who  went  to  school  fifty  years 
ago.  He  was  almost  confessedly  Tennyson's, 
as  shown  by  his  summarized  judgment  of  the 
poet  in  his  Mantuan  ode,  published  the  other 
day.  Virgil  is  the  patron  saint  of  our  five 
hundred  years  of  Renaissance,  and  Tennyson 
closes  the  dynasty  of  its  high  priests. 

From  Virgil  to  Theocritus,  so  far  as  idyllic 
poetry  is  concerned,  is  but  a  step.  Virgil's 
shield  is  the  same  as  that  of  Theocritus,  only 
with  the  difference  of  a  Latin  field  instead 
of  a  Greek  one;  and  what  Tennyson  failed 
to  find  in  Virgil  he  sought  in  the  ' '  Sicilian 
Shepherd." 

But  it  would  be  useless  to  set  forth  all  the 
paths  of  labor  which  the  poet  has  travelled  in 
his  reading  to  glean  material  wherewith  to 
enrich  his  muse.  Even  in  his  most  fervid 
and  off-hand  efforts,  he  has  apparently  first 

69 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


racked  his  memory  for  a  model  or  a  sugges- 
tion. The  "Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade" 
recalls,  by  a  line  or  two  (suppressed,  I  be- 
lieve), the  ancient  Greek  revolutionary  song 
of  Harmodios  and  Aristogeiton,  showing  how 
Tennyson  had  cast  about  him  for  a  precedent 
in  the  past.  Tennyson's  sources  of  literary 
culture  may  principally  be  found  in  Greek, 
Latin,  Italian,  and  English  literature.  He 
hardly  seems  to  be  attracted  to  French;  and 
if  he  does  use  that  tongue,  it  is  probably  the 
form  known  as  Duke-of- Wellington  French 
— a  speech  which  came  to  be  popular  after 
Waterloo. 


The  Laureate,  whatever  liberality  there 
may  be  in  his  character,  is  an  Englishman. 
He  does  not  belong  to  that  class  of  elastic 
cosmopolites,  who,  in  whatever  land  they 
may  be,  give  the  impression  that  they  were 
born  elsewhere.  He  believes  thoroughly  in 
British  insulation;  and  in  company  the  other 
day  with  a  numerous  assembly  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  signed  the  Channel  protest,  wish- 
ing it  to  be  of  record  that  he  for  one  believed 
in  maintaining  those  bulwarks  of  British  glory 
—  the  Channel  fleet  and  seasickness. 

"  God  bless  the  narrow  seas  ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad." 

70 


Tennyson  does  not  show  any  faith  in  the  Alfred 
modern  hexameter;  and  he  has  a  sneer  for  poet  '' 
the  German  article  —  probably  as  found  in  Laureate. 
Voss.  He  may  not  be  partial  to  German 
literature:  save  in  "Maud"  (and  possibly 
not  there),  he  scarcely  indicates  any  Ger- 
man reading.  When  he  was  young,  German 
scholarship  in  England  was  meagre.  It  was 
only  when  Carlyle,  by  force  and  arms,  com- 
pelled attention  to  it,  that  a  knowledge  in  that 
direction  became  common.  De  Ouincey,  for 
philosophical  uses,  studied  the  tongue;  Cole- 
ridge and  Shelley  took  hold  of  it  for  poetry's 
sake;  Walter  Scott  translated  Goetz  von 
Berlichingen.  But  in  the  early  part  of  the 
century,  besides  his  unsavory  "Monk,"  a 
knowledge  of  German  was  the  only  recom- 
mendation to  literary  notice  that  Matthew 
Lewis  could  assert.  Nowadays,  almost  any 
clever  English  girl  (leaving  out  her  brother, 
Macaulay's  school-boy)  is  supposed  to  be 
able  to  read  Schiller. 

It  would  not  be  wise  to  contradict  an  opin- 
ion on  the  subject  of  verse  melody  originating 
with  the  poet.  His  ear  has  been  too  long  in 
the  training  of  harmonious  sounds  to  be  dis- 
trusted; but  though  there  is  a  deal  of  sibila- 
tion  in  Voss's  hexameters,  it  gives,  after  all,  a 
seething,  swishing  spatter  to  the  verse  that 
71 


Alfred        sounds  of  the  Baltic  waves,  and  remotely  of 
Tennyson,    ^t  j    i        t- 

Poet  Homer  and  the  ytgaean. 


Laureate. 


One  test  of  excellence,  if  it  be  a  test,  has 
been  tried  again  and  again  upon  Tennyson. 
It  is  the  transferring  of  his  poems  by  scholars 
into  Latin  verse.  At  this  amusement,  some 
of  the  noted  Latinists  in  England  have  tried 
their  hands.  I  noticed,  some  months  since, 
a  translation  into  Greek  of  the  pretty  song 
in  "The  Cup."  Such  jeux  d' esprit  show 
how  affectionately  he  is  regarded  by  the 
scholarly  portion  of  the  rising  generation 
in  England.  Tennyson  is  the  only  English 
author  besides  Shakspere  and  Milton  who 
has  been  found  worthy  of  a  concordance. 
Samuel  Rogers,  with  all  his  wealth  to  gild 
his  claims  as  poet,  could  never  have  invaded 
the  hearts  of  artists  of  brush  and  pencil  as 
Tennyson  has  done,  nor  could  he  have 
ever  furnished  such  inspiration  for  their 
work. 

Tennyson's  attitude  towards  his  critics  and 
the  public  has  ever  been  one  of  patient  hu- 
mility. It  is  rare  that  he  shows  any  restive 
anger.  One  or  two  poems  have  an  indignrfnt 
sound;  and  on  one  occasion — namely,  tow- 
ards Bulwer—  he  did   exhibit   temper,  which, 

72 


notwithstanding  the  provocation,  he  has  since 
no  doubt  regretted. 

I  am  nowise  sure,  however,  that  Bulwer's 
"  Miss  Alfred  "  was  not  a  beneficial  sneer,  after 
all.  There  was  a  general  tone  and  perfume  of 
boudoir  elegance  pervading  his  then  published 
poems,  which,  agreeable  under  certain  condi- 
tions, might  have  become  too  much  of  a  good 
thing.  And,  besides,  some  of  his  early  poems 
— for  example,  "O  Darling  Room"  —  are 
quite  too  awfully  nice  to  escape  brutal  critics. 
The  fact  is,  that  a  minstrel's  listeners  must  be 
mailed  knights  as  well  as  gentle  ladies;  and 
he  must  sing  accordingly,  if  he  would  not  be 
relegated  to  the  companionship  of  the  idol- 
ized pianist  and  limp  curate — objects  of  mys- 
terious interest  to  the  feminine  heart,  but 
unloved  by  coarser  males. 

In  response  to  Bulwer's  rasping  mention 
of  him,  Tennyson  gave  one  deep-chested 
howl  of  ire  (just  to  show  his  critic  that  he 
had  been  nudging  an  Ursus  horridus  instead 
of  a  sentimental  girl),  and  then  trimmed 
his  style  to  avoid  a  similar  reproach  in  the 
future. 

He  has,  in  fact,  used  criticism  very  much 
as  painters  use  a  mirror,  to  verify  or  discover 
errors  in  drawing  or  color. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


73 


Alfred  In  the  earlier  volumes,  Tennyson  appended 

Poet  '  exegetical  notes,  here  and  there,  to  bring  the 
Laureate,  reader  into  better  intelligence  with  the  verse. 
There  was  too  much  of  it  in  some  instances, 
and  he  ultimately  veered  to  the  other  extreme, 
and  dropped  notes  of  any  kind.  We  all  have 
laughed  heartily  at  Thackeray's  burlesque 
upon  "Timbuctoo,"  which  was  printed  in 
the  "Snob"  of  university  days;  and  one  of 
the  most  amusing  features  of  the  squib  is  the 
wealth  of  exegesis  appended.  To  avoid  the 
error  there  satirized,  Tennyson  stripped  his 
poems  of  all  prose  explanation.  I  do  not  know 
that  such  a  course  is  always  commendable. 
For  my  own  part,  I  find  it  very  comfortable 
to  be  bolstered  up  by  marginal  commentary. 
There  is  more  wit,  philosophy,  and  informa- 
tion in  Byron's  autograph  elucidation  of  his 
own  works  than  in  many  authors'  texts. 

And  in  this  connection,  would  it  not  be  a 
good  idea  if  some  clever  American  editor, 
who  would  not  mind  being  a  thief,  should 
publish  an  edition  of  Tennyson  with  a  run- 
ning commentary  made  up  with  excerpts, 
more  or  less  apposite  or  true,  from  the  criti- 
cisms which  have  appeared  of  our  poet,  from 
"Musty,  Fusty  Christopher"  down  to  the 
latest  date,  together  with  all  the  parallel  pas- 
sages marked  by  admirers  or  foes  ?    It  would 

74 


do  Tennyson  no  harm,  and  might  stir  up  a 
closer  spirit  of  examination,  and  consequent 
better  appreciation  of  his  merit  and  power. 
Something  in  the  nature  of  an  annotated  edi- 
tion was  at  one  time  contemplated  in  England. 
The  author  of  "  A  New  Study  of  Tenny- 
son," in  Cornhill,  wonders  why  the  poet  does 
not  give  Miss  Mitford  credit  for  "Dora,"  so 
far  as  plot  is  considered.  In  the  1842  edition 
there  is  a  note  to  that  effect,  also  crediting 
Miss  Ferrier  (Walter  Scott's  pet  young  au- 
thoress) with  the  idea  of  ' '  Lady  Clare ' ' ;  but 
the  rigid  suppression  of  notes  carried  that 
one  with  the  rest. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Tennyson  has,  throughout  his  career  of 
literary  labor,  not  merely  inverted  his  stilus 
to  rub  out  a  word  here  and  there;  but  when- 
ever he  fancied  a  verse  or  a  whole  poem  to 
be  overripe  or  rotten,  he  has  not  hesitated 
to  tear  out  page  after  page,  and  fling  whole 
editions  into  the  fire.  But  the  permanency 
of  print  to  him  is  a  curse.  His  older  versions 
have  acquired  a  charm  for  ghoulish  biblio- 
maniacs; and  notwithstanding  his  suppressive 
policy,  he  is  impotent  in  his  endeavors,  and 
must  sit  and  suffer  pangs  while  surreptitious 
and  piratic  editions  of  his  early  poems  are 
being  passed  about  under  his  very  nose. 
75 


Alfred  The  "Lover's  Tale"  (what  motive  could 

P0gf  '  have  induced  him  to  withdraw  it  from  pub- 
Laureate.  lication  ?),  written  when  the  poet  was  nine- 
teen, is  a  specimen  of  his  fastidious  anxiety; 
some  freebooting  publisher  of  late  years  issued 
it  illicitly,  and  the  Laureate  "had  him  up" 
for  the  offense,  but  was  finally  obliged  to  yield 
to  his  fate,  and  issue  it  himself  The  London 
Times  intimated  that  theft  of  that  sort  would 
become  popular,  if  publication  of  a  sought- 
for  poem  were  thereby  enforced. 

What  an  unpretentious  winning  poem  is 
"The  Princess"!  Who  is  there  among 
articulately  speaking  men  that  has  not  been 
charmed  by  it  ?  (By  articulately  speaking 
men,  I  mean,  of  course,  English-speaking 
men.)  It  is  so  simple,  so  easy  to  understand 
(one  wise  critic,  however,  claims  Tennyson's 
intelligibility  to  be  a  defect);  and  yet  it  has 
political,  moral,  and  social  philosophy  enough 
in  it  to  furnish  up  a  university  or  social  con- 
gress. It  appeared  in  1847,  and  showed  that 
Wordsworth  had  not  mistaken  the  merit  of 
his  successor  to  the  laurel  crown. 

Several  models  may  have  been  used  to  ob- 
tain the  form  of  "In  Memoriam."  The  one 
nearest  in  mechanical  construction  is  the  latter 

76 


part  of   Petrarch's    "Rime"   (after    Laura's    Alfred 
Death).    Adonais  had  been  adopted  by  Shel-     ^p^S^^""' 
ley  as  his  model  for  the  poem  on  the  death  of    Laureate. 
Keats;  and  Tennyson  had  the  Greek  lament 
in    his    mind,    as    also    Milton's   "Lycidas." 
Ben  Jonson  and  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury 
perhaps   furnished  the  particular  versification 
used. 

But  if  we  compare  Tennyson's  work  with 
the  Italian  or  English  poems  suggested,  we 
find  it  infinitely  superior  both  in  matter  and 
manner.  There  is  always  a  hint  of  mawkish - 
ness  when  a  lover  whines  bemoaningly  over 
a  mistress,  whether  alive  or  dead;  but  a  boy's 
friendship  for  his  fellow  is  pure  and  reverential; 
and  in  the  grandeur  of  the  thoughts  strung 
together,  the  man  of  the  nineteenth  century 
has  by  far  the  advantage  in  breadth  and  dig- 
nity over  him  of  the  fourteenth. 

"Lycidas,"  after  all,  has  something  of  the 
air  of  a  college  exercise,  gotten  up  "to  im- 
prove the  occasion"  of  young  King's  death; 
and  Shelley  was  thinking  entirely  too  much 
of  his  Greek  model  to  be  completely  natural 
in  his  verse  or  grief 

"In  Memoriam  "  is  neither  more  nor  less 
than  a  careful  treasure-house,  wherein  are 
stored  the  best  and  most  affectionate  of  a 
man's  thoughts,  for  delivery  on  the  joyous 
77 


Alfred        day  when  a  far-travelled  friend  returns  to  his 
Tennyson,    , 
Poet  home. 


Laureate. 


In  1850,  Wordsworth  died,  and  Tennyson 
was  appointed  to  the  laureateship  by  Lord 
John  Russell;  Palmerston,  as  great  an  admirer 
of  Virgil  as  Maecenas  himself,  being  of  the 
cabinet. 

The  ' '  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Wellington ' ' 
was  the  first  really  important  official  duty  un- 
dertaken by  Tennyson — if  a  laureate  can  be 
said  to  have  duties.  No  appointed  task  is 
easy  for  a  poet;  and  a  poem  for  an  occasion 
is  likely  to  be  weak  and  worthless.  Duty 
gets  but  mediocre  service  out  of  its  slaves. 
Yet  if  ever  there  was  a  man  who  could  come 
to  the  task  of  poetic  eulogy  of  the  dead  soldier, 
it  was  Tennyson.  Wellington  was  nothing  it 
not  English — a  character  in  which  he  claimed 
the  poet's  fullest  reverence;  who  could  sym- 
pathize fully  with  the  Waterloo  victor's  in- 
tense Anglicanism,  distrust  of  Napoleonic 
ideas,  and  feith  in  England's  pluck  and  glory. 
All  of  the  Laureate's  metrical  skill  was  ac- 
cordingly invoked;  and  he  even  went  back  to 
the  court  of  the  Romano-Byzantine  emperors 
for  a  poetic  title  grand  enough  and  glorious 
enough  to  inscribe  upon  the  sarcophagus  of 
the  Great  Duke. 

78 


What  a  puzzle  was   ' '  Maud  ' '  to  the  critics     Alfred 
for  some  time  after  its  publication!     How  its     /j^^/        ' 
rambling    incoherency   was  discussed!      The    Laureate. 
Laureate  was  actually  compelled  to  insert,  at 
places  in  the  subsequent   edition,   additional 
verses  to  serve  as  bridges  over  the  difficulties. 
And  yet  how  simple  it  seems  to-day!     We  • 
have  most  of  us  grown  up  to  it. 

The  poem  is  really  an  English  version  of 
the  "Sorrows  of  Werther" — the  facts  being 
changed  to  correspond  to  English  taste  and 
prejudices.  Indeed,  some  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite passages  might  be  versifications  of  the 
German  prose,  though  it  may  be  that  Tenny- 
son did  not  obtain  his  matter  from  that  source. 
There  is  the  same  brooding  introspection;  the 
same  impossible  ambition  to  be  something, 
one  knows  not  what;  the  same  sense  of  ap- 
prehension as  to  the  passion  of  love.  The 
English  solution — "a  hope  for  the  world  in 
the  coming  wars" — is  better  than  the  Ger- 
man crisis  of  snuffing  out  the  candle  of  life 
altogether.  There  is  the  same  disgust  for  the 
arrogance  of  wealth.  I  wonder  how  many  of 
us  thought  of  the  ' '  oiled  and  curled  Assyrian 
bull"  when  the  Stalwart  leader  translated  the 
epithet,  the  other  day,  into  the  Stalwart  dia- 
lect, and  likened  his  faithful  Achates  unto  "a 
prize  ox,  waiting  for  his  blue  ribbon." 
79 


Alfred  I  always  regarded  Thackeray's  criticism  of 

PoeY^'^"'  Tennyson's  "  Welcome  to  Alexandra  "  as  one 
Laureate,  of  the  happiest  expressions  of  literary  judg- 
ment of  record.  Indeed,  one  always  feels 
safe  and  satisfied  when  Thackeray  ascends 
the  bench.  None  but  the  novelist  could  have 
likened  the  Laureate  to  "a  giant  showing  a 
beacon  torch  on  a  'windy  headland.'  [Ten- 
nyson, I  believe,  then  lived  on  the  Isle  of 
Wight.]  His  flaming  torch  is  a  pine-tree,  to 
be  sure,  which  nobody  can  wield  but  himself 
He  waves  it;  and  four  times  in  the  midnight 
he  shouts  mightily,  'Alexandra!'  and  the 
pontic  pine  is  whirled  into  the  ocean,  and 
Enceladus  goes  home."  Think  of  the  tall 
poet  as  Enceladus  waving  a  flaming  pine! 
Thackeray  once  said  that  Tennyson  was  the 
wisest  man  he  knew. 

The  two  men  were  at  college  together;  but 
it  is  hardly  likely  that  they  were  in  the  same 
set.  The  fact  is,  that  Thackeray  in  those 
days  must  have  been  too  wild  for  the  rectory 
boy  poet.  We  all  enjoy  the  recital  of  the 
tricks  and  manners  of  the  Steynes,  the  Cinq- 
bars,  the  Ringwoods,  and  the  Deuceaces;  but, 
my  dear  young  lady  readers,  it  could  hardly 
be  that  one  should  describe  them  so  well  with- 
out having  frequented  their  society  more  than 
was  good  for  a  young  gentleman  with  his  for- 

80 


tune  still  to  make.  It  is  all  right  now;  but 
what  trouble  the  perverseness  of  attaining 
that  sort  of  knowledge  must  have  given,  at 
the  time,  to  those  in  family  or  collegiate 
authority! 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


I  somehow  fancy  that  we  of  this  generation, 
who  learned  our  letters  before  '50  {Ekeu 
fugaces  /),  and  were  rather  tender  calves  when 
the  rebellion  broke  out,  who  had  to  read  the 
"Idylls  of  the  King"  by  piecemeal,  have 
been  cheated  out  of  the  fullest  appreciation 
of  the  work  which  would  attend  a  perusal  of 
the  entire  series  as  one  logical  unity.  After 
"  Morte  d' Arthur,"  every  one  believed  that 
Tennyson  could  write  an  English  epic,  if  an 
English  epic  was  to  be  written  at  all;  and  for 
all  practical  purposes,  the  ' '  Idylls  ' '  constitute 
an  epic;  and  if  the  author  did  not  give  them 
the  name,  it  was  probably  out  of  respect  for 
some  arbitrary  tradition,  such  as  that  which 
requires  an  epic  to  be  limited  in  narrative,  so 
far  as  the  poet  is  concerned,  to  one  year — in 
other  words,  to  be  the  record  of  a  single 
campaign. 

It  had  been  understood  for  years,  before 
the  Arthurian  legends,  constituting  four  of 
the  "  Idylls,"  were  published,  that  the  Laure- 
ate was  at  work  upon  a  long  poem;  indeed, 
81 


Alfred  two  of  the  ' '  Idylls ' '  had  been  privately  printed, 
Poet  '  ^^^  were  being  held  in  suspense,  and  subject 
Laureate,  to  emendation.  For  some  time  before  the 
actual  publication  there  was  a  buzz  of  liter- 
ary expectancy,  which  pervaded  the  United 
States  as  well  as  England;  and  the  eagerness 
to  read  the  poems  invaded  classes  ordinarily 
cold  to  the  charms  of  verse.  I  can  remem- 
ber my  own  enthusiasm,  in  a  western  town, 
when  the  librarian  handed  me  the  only  copy 
which  had  come,  and  which  he  had  saved  for 
me,  and  I  shut  myself  up  to  enjoy  the  mar- 
vellous production  before  the  bloom  had  van- 
ished from  the  verse  or  the  odor  from  the 
printer's  ink. 

Tennyson,  as  befitted  an  Englishman,  took 
an  English  demi-god  for  his  hero — that  is,  a 
hero  conventionally  agreed  upon  by  myth 
dealers  as  English;  for  it  is  by  no  means  cer- 
tain that  Arthur  was  not  Breton  rather  than 
Briton  in  birth  and  domicile.  People,  too,  who 
look  into  such  matters  closely  seem  to  fancy 
that  Flos  regicni  Arthuriis  is  a  graft,  imported 
from  some  Aryan  nursery.  The  material 
forming  the  basis  of  the  story  was  the  "  Morte 
d' Arthur"  of  Malory,  heli)ed  out  by  other 
chroniclers  —  English,  French,  Welsh,  and 
Irish — in  prose  and  verse;  for  the  story  has 
oozed  into  the  text  of  nearly  all  legends  of 

8? 


the  Romantic  literature  of  Europe.  The  sub- 
ject was  said  to  be  a  favorite  one  with  the 
late  Prince  Consort,  whose  taste  shows  itself 
in  a  quiet  way  in  so  many  directions  in  Eng- 
lish art  and  culture. 

Among  the  sources  other  than  Malory  to 
which  Tennyson  betook  himself  for  his  frame- 
work of  facts  was  the  "Mabinogion,"  or 
"Boys'  Own  Book  of  Tales,"  as  an  English 
publisher  might  call  it. 

There  was,  half  a  century  ago,  down  in 
the  * '  black  country ' '  of  Wales,  a  certain  man 
of  great  financial  genius,  who  "wrought  till 
he  crept  from  a  gutted  mine,  master  of  half 
a  servile  shire,"  and  of  every  other  good 
thing  which  wealth  can  buy;  and  among  these 
good  things,  of  a  noble  and  brilliant  wife,  one 
Lady  Charlotte  Lindsey.  (All  women  named 
Lindsey  or  Lindsay  are  wonderfully  clever; 
witness,  "Auld  Robin  Gray,"  etc.)  This  ele- 
gant dame  took  it  into  her  head  to  publish 
an  Edition  de  luxe  of  the  "  Mabinogion,"  and 
to  have  it  printed  in  Wales.  Of  course,  it 
was  the  bibliographical  wonder  of  the  day. 
Scholars  prized  it,  learned  bishops  spoke  en- 
thusiastically (and  truthfully  also)  of  its  merits; 
while  Tennyson,  who  seems  to  like  the  Welsh, 
appropriated  or  conveyed  from  it  into  his 
collection  of  idylls  the  story  of  ' '  Geraint  ap 
83 


Alfred 
Tetitiyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred        Erbin,"  a  tale  that,  whether  in  the  original 
Poet        '    legend  or  in  the  poet's  verse,  more  than  rivals 
Laureate,    the  ' '  Griseldis ' '  of  Boccaccio  for  interest  and 
simplicity  of  moral. 

Tennyson  is  said  to  consider  the  idyll  of 
"  Guinevere"  the  culmination  of  the  epic.  I 
never  felt  very  deeply  the  force  of  that  idyll. 
It  has  somehow  seemed  to  me  that  the  real 
painful  crisis  is  when  little  Dagonet — the  poor, 
faithful  clown,  the  affectionate  human  dog — 
looks  up  to  his  royal  master  and  says,  sobbing, 

"I  am  thy  fool, 
And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smile  again." 

As  to  the  "  Guinevere"  idyll,  there  would 
naturally  be  some  sense  of  cheerfulness  about 
the  parties,  like  two  divorced  people  taking 
lunch  together  after  the  judge  has  decreed 
separation  a  vinculo.  Arthur's  spirits  are 
stirred  by  the  battle  in  which  he  is  about  to 
engage — a  dubious  one,  it  is  true;  but  Arthur 
is  a  Celt,  and  the  outlook  has  its  charms. 
On  the  other  hand,  Guinevere  has  been  con- 
fessing the  wrongs  done  by  her;  and  next  to 
wronging  a  friend  or  lover,  what  a  woman 
most  enjoys  is  telling  him  of  it.  In  such  a 
crisis  there  is  falsehood  either  to  her  lord  or 
her  lover,  and  falsehood  is  never  lofty  or 
touching.     It  is  moral,  however;  but  morality 


is  neither  epic  nor  tragic.      If  prim  Madam    Alfred 
Morality  even  escapes  being  laughable,  she  is    poet^^^"' 
lucky.  Laureate. 

The  business  of  appropriating  other  men's 
labors  as  the  foundation  for  one's  own  has 
been  a  matter  of  controversy  in  the  forum  of 
literary  morality  ever  since  the  ^neid.  Is  it 
a  merit  or  a  vice  to  take  up  and  improve 
another's  thought?  A  certain  class  of  critics 
would  like  to  make  it  a  crime;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  success  seems  to  crown  every 
author,  whether  epic  poet  or  dramatist,  who 
accomplishes  such  a  robbery  boldly  and  artis- 
tically. There  is  probably  no  great  literary 
monument  (not  even  excepting  Homer's  epics) 
that  is  not  a  plagiaristic  conversion,  for  which 
not  one,  but  several  generations  and  ages, 
might  be  actionable  together. 

An  instance  of  this  successive  appropria- 
tion is  the  story  of  "  Federigo  and  the  Fal- 
con," claimed  to  be  original  with  Boccaccio. 
As  a  fact,  it  is  an  Arabic  legend,  told  of  Ha- 
tem  Tai,  a  sheik  and  poet  of  a  period  prior 
to  Mohammed,  whose  metrical  attacks  upon 
avarice  are  still  on  the  lips  of  his  countrymen; 
the  legend  varying,  however,  in  that  it  repre- 
sents the  sacrifice  to  hospitality  as  being  a 
favorite  horse  which  the  Byzantine  emperor, 

85 


Alfred  to  make  trial  of  Hateni's  renowned  generosity, 
Poet  '  ^^^  ^^^^  messengers  to  request  as  a  gift,  and 
Laureate,  which,  on  their  arrival,  and  before  Hatem  had 
learned  the  object  of  their  coming,  he  had 
(being  straitened  in  his  larder,  and  horseflesh 
being  regarded  as  dainty  food)  killed  and 
cooked  for  their  entertainment.  It  was  nat- 
ural that  the  gallantry  of  western  Europe 
should  have  substituted  a  lady-love  for  the 
emperor,  and  that  the  gentle  sport  of  falconry 
should  have  suggested  a  pet  hawk  for  the 
Arab's  steed. 

In  style,  Tennyson  seems  to  harmonize,  to 
a  remarkable  degree,  with  the  languid  tender- 
ness of  the  Italian  prosaist.  Had  Boccaccio 
been  kept  in  Purgatory  five  hundred  years 
for  his  sins  of  sense,  and  then  as  penance  let 
loose  in  England  to  write  what  pleased  him, 
he  certainly  would  have  chosen  the  Laureate's 
style. 

Into  what  bright  and  glittering  pieces  Ten- 
nyson has  recoined  the  old  Italian  bullion! 
And  with  what  manly  decency  does  he  stand 
out  in  his  vigorous,  mental  health  as  com- 
pared with  La  Fontaine's  licentious  indolence, 
and  in  working  the  same  lode! 

As  a  moralist,  and  in  comparison  with  the 
French  masters  in  that  regard,  Tennyson  has 

86 


much   of  the  delicate  faculty  of  observation  Alfred 

of  the  suppressed  emotions  and  passions  of  pj"!-^^^"' 

men  and  women   which  vivifies  the  prose  of  Laureate. 
La  Bruyere. 

In  his  subjects  and  his  treatment  of  them, 
Tennyson  is  the  very  high-priest  of  ' '  Di- 
vinest  Melancholy";  and  in  that  particular, 
whatever  be  the  cause,  whether  it  lies  in  the 
imperfect  digestion  of  his  generation  or  in  its 
overwrought  nervous  powers,  he  is  emphati- 
cally the  poet  of  his  age,  of  its  thought  and 
emotions.  He  has  only  to  touch  the  chords, 
and  humanity  mysteriously  grieves  like  a 
tender-hearted  setter  under  the  magic  of  a 
nocturne  on  the  piano. 

Politically,  Tennyson  would  appear  to  be 
an  aristocratic  liberal;  that  is,  a  man  who  as- 
sumes to  be  above  the  people  rather  than  of 
them;  who  would  not  the  less  scorn  to  add 
a  feather  to  their  weights  in  running  the  race 
of  life;  but  who,  at  the  same  time,  has  an 
amiable  contempt  for  the  servility,  treachery, 
and  dishonesty  which  are  more  than  likely 
to  be  qualities  inherent  in  poverty,  whether 
handicapped  or  not  by  ignorance  or  servile 
origin.  And  in  any  event,  ex  officio,  every 
poet  should  be  something  of  a  tory. 
87 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Lmireate. 


For  the  same  reason,  a  poet  should,  for 
his  profession's  sake,  belong  to  the  more 
archaic  church.  The  ceilings  of  the  would-be 
philosophical  temple  of  Protestantism  have  too 
white-washed  and  forbidding  a  look  to  invite 
the  muses  to  kneel  therein.  But  we  have  no 
right  to  expect  that  a  man  born  in  an  English 
rectory  should  escape  the  prejudices  which 
are  the  lares  haunting  its  hearthstones.  To 
me,  "Queen  Mary,"  whether  regarded  as  a 
poem  or  a  drama,  is  a  very  uncomfortable 
production.  There  is  an  aura  of  chilliness 
running  through  the  entire  subject.  There  is 
but  one  cheery  moment  or  word  to  rest  upon; 
and  that  is  where  "Robin  came  and  kissed 
me  milking  the  cow." 

Wives  who  suffer  as  did  Mary  are  by  no 
means  uncommon;  and  in  a  social  point  of 
view,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  it  was  rather  un- 
gallant  of  the  Laureate,  in  his  eagerness  to 
strike  a  blow  for  his  island's  church,  to  hit 
out  at  a  poor,  visionary  old  maid  making  a 
loveless  and  fruitless  marriage.  Whenever 
rubicund  and  wheezy  Anglican  ecclesiasticism 
feels,  as  punishment  for  its  good  living,  an 
extra  twinge  of  rheumatic  gout  in  its  joints, 
it  has  frightful  visions  of  the  Armada  and  the 
Spanish  Inquisition;  and  groans  about  thumb- 
screws and  racks. 


"The  Cup,"  as  a  drama,  has,  I  believe, 
had  more  stage  success  than  either  "Harold" 
or  "Mary,"  and  has  bits  here  and  there  in  the 
poet's  happiest  manner.  The  incident  is  tak- 
en from  Plutarch's  "Amatoria"  (repeated  in 
Polyaenus).  I  remember  seeing  it  made  into 
a  story  with  a  French  ?nise  en  scene,  published 
in  "Friendship's  Offering"  for  1839,  an  an- 
nual to  preceding  years  of  which  Tennyson 
had  contributed.  The  subject  appears  also  to 
have  been  selected  by  Jean  de  Hays,  a  French 
dramatist,  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, for  his  ' '  Cammate. ' ' 

As  each  of  Tennyson's  plays  has  been  pro- 
duced on  the  stage,  there  has  been  a  buzzing 
sub- murmur  of  critics  that  there  was  only  a 
succes  d'estime,  if  not  an  absolute  failure. 
Had  there  been  an  out-and-out  failure,  it 
would  only  have  been  what  might  have  been 
expected.  The  poet  is  not  versed  in  stage 
business,  as  is  Boucicault,  and  such  knowl- 
edge is  absolutely  essential  to  the  composi- 
tion, nowadays,  of  a  successful  drama.  Had 
the  rectory  lad  improved  his  time  properly, 
from  say  1830  to  1840,  in  lounging  in  the 
green-rooms  and  posing  in  the  side-scenes, 
jostling  scene-shifters  and  shawling  soubrettes, 
and  taking  thespian  parties  to  supper  orgies, 
instead  of  sitting   priggishly  in    his    darling 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyso7i, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


room  and  posing  as  "  Miss  Alfred,"  his  train- 
ing would  now  stand  him  in  good  service. 

But  a  day  may  come  when  the  public 
familiar  with  the  text  of  his  plays  will  enjoy 
them  on  representation.  Be  it  remembered 
that  "The  Cid  "  had  detractors  whose  opin- 
ions were  weighty;  and  that  Moliere's  wittiest 
lines  took  time  to  impress. 

The  telegraph  tells  us  that  Tennyson's  prose 
drama,  "  The  Promise  of  May,"  is  a  failure; 
and  also  that  the  Most  Noble,  the  Marquess 
of  Queensberry,  arose  and  protested  against 
the  travesty  in  the  play  of  the  modern  dogmas 
concerning  free  thought,  and  left  the  house. 
One  is  carried  back  to  the  days  of  Louis 
Quatorze,  and  to  the  noble  cavaliers  who 
then  crowded  the  stage,  and  abused  the 
dramatists  of  that  glittering  time.  What 
the  deuce  has  a  noble  marquess  to  do  with 
free  thought,  anyway?  A  coronet  is  about 
as  handy  a  thing  to  have  on  in  a  revolu- 
tion in  politics  or  religion  as  a  stovepipe 
hat  in  an  Irish  shindy.  How  much  more 
appreciative  a  critic  would  her  Grace  Kitty 
of  the  ducal  Queensberrys  have  been — Prior's 
Kitty — Gay's  Kitty — who  stood  stoutly  up 
for  "The  Beggar's  Opera,"  and  nursed  the 
sick  poet  in  his  disgrace  when  royalty  itself 
turned  censor — Walpole's   Kitty — could  she 

90 


have   sat  in   a   box    and   patted    her   pretty 
hands ! 

Tennyson's  fame  has  brought  him  one 
frightful  infliction,  in  the  persistent  intrusion 
upon  his  time  and  acquaintance  of  hon-hunt- 
ing  tourists;  and  it  is  even  murmured  that 
there  is  a  class  of  travelling  Americans  espe- 
cially guilty  in  that  way. 

Hawthorne  set  Americans  an  example  in 
that  regard  which  should  have  been  accepted. 
Now,  if  there  was  an  American  who  would 
have  represented  our  nation  gracefully  in 
the  poet's  eyes,  it  would  have  been  Haw- 
thorne; if  any  American  could  have  been 
sure  of  a  welcome,  it  was  Hawthorne;  and 
yet  he  contented  himself  with  a  good  look 
at  the  Englishman  in  a  public  assembly. 
There  might  be  a  remedy  for  the  evil,  paci- 
fying all  parties.  The  poet  might  select  a 
tall  young  man  from  the  rising  generation — 
some  Maudle  or  Postlethwaite — who  would 
not  cloy  with  being  stared  at  (and  there 
are  young  bards  to  whom  notoriety  is  so 
sweet!),  to  play  the  part  of  the  veteran's 
double,  and  be  shown  as  the  actual  incum- 
bent of  the  laureateship.  Of  course,  the 
shadow  would  have  to  prune  his  diction  so 
as  not  to  ruin  Tennyson's    reputation;    but 

91 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureale. 


Alfred        such   discipline  might  be  a  great  benefit  in 

Tentiyson, 

Poet  years  to  come. 


Laureate. 


Tennyson  has,  as  a  fact,  founded  no  school. 
His  grammatical  methods,  his  fashions  of  pros- 
ody, his  shades  of  mannerism,  have  all  been 
imitated,  for  all  had  the  seed;  but  the  revolu- 
tion in  science,  over  the  infancy  of  which  Ten- 
nyson has  been  a  watchful  sentinel,  and  the 
broadening  of  the  field  of  culture,  the  new 
aims  which  are  to  be  sought,  and  the  new 
foes  which  are  to  be  vanquished,  render  it 
necessary  that  "the  foremost  files  of  time," 
in  which  Tennyson  has  so  long  served 
as  a  grenadier,  be  filled  up  with  young  re- 
cruits armed  with  new  weapons;  and  that 
the  veterans  who  survive  be  left  to  do  sim- 
ple garrison  duty  over  the  spoils  already 
captured. 

Tennyson  has  lived  a  brilliant  and  com- 
plete literary  life.  We  hope  he  may  be 
spared  to  us  as  long  as  was  Fontenelle  to  the 
Frenchmen;  that  he  will  see  an  international 
copyright  in  smooth  working  order;  that 
he  will  make  a  fortune  out  of  his  books, 
every  stanza  bringing  him  a  one-caret  dia- 
mond; and  that  he  will  be  peremptorily 
summoned  to  the  House  of  Lords  before 
' '  that   venerable    bulwark ' '    is   smashed   to 

92 


flinders  by  the  artillery  of  "  Free  Thought."     Alfred 
What  a  pang  strikes  the  hearts  of  us —  /b"/"^      ' 


"  With  tonsured  heads  in  middle  age  forlorn  " — 

when  a  master  of  our  day  passes  away ! 
How  many  are  there  of  us  who  have  read 
a  fresh  novel  with  any  intensity  since  Thack- 
eray fell  asleep?  People  of  the  glaring,  im- 
pertinent generation  coming  in  and  treading 
on  our  kibes  may  have  their  new  fiction, 
new  poems,  and  new  philosophy;  but  we  will 
none  of  them. 

The  generation  which  commenced  "when 
classic  Canning  died"  is  closing;  the  men 
who  amused  and  instructed  it  are,  with  some 
few  exceptions,  gone.  Macaulay,  Thack- 
eray, Dickens,  Longfellow,  Dr.  Newman, 
Carlyle,  Mrs.  Browning,  George  Eliot,  and 
Anthony  TroUope  are  dead.  If  a  few  like 
Manning,  Gladstone,  and  Tennyson  still  re- 
main with  us,  ' '  yet  is  their  strength  labor  and 
sorrow. ' ' 

There  is  no  easy  transition  or  succession 
from  one  generation  to  another.  There  is 
always  a  moral  chasm  intervening.  The 
coming  race  may  admire  Tennyson;  but  he 
will  not  be  their  representative  poet.  His 
prides,  his  sympathies,  his  affections,  his 
politics,  his  beliefs,  will  be  archaisms  to  their 
93 


Laureate. 


Alfred        taste.     There  are  poets,   possessors  of  some 
Poet        '    power  and   authority  in  our   reading  world, 
Laureate,    who  may  reign  after  him;  but  it  will  be  as  a 
new  dynasty,  and  not  by  regular  succession. 


It  will  be  a  bad  index  of  the  morality  of 
the  next  age  if  the  band  of  ' '  fleshly ' '  bards 
who  have  already  glided  into  popularity  main- 
tain their  ground  permanently.  They  are  as 
foreign  to  the  Laureate  in  temperament  and 
morals  as  were  the  authors  of  the  days  of 
Charles  II.  to  Milton.  The  clef  to  which  the 
Laureate  has  at  all  times  set  his  notes  has 
been  one  of  honest  morality  or  honest  re- 
morse. He  has  sung  either  the  miseries  that 
attend  as  sequences  to  impossible  or  disap- 
pointed love  in  self-reverencing  natures,  or 
the  happiness  which  honestly  comes  from 
gratification;  but  he  has  not  dallied  over 
description  of  the  actual  orgasms  of  pas- 
sion. Love  is  present  in  all  his  verses;  but 
it  is  hidden  under  the  soil,  like  the  dead 
man's  head  in  the  Pot  of  Basil.  It  is  the 
force  behind  the  emotion — not  the  ultimate 
object  to  be  reached.  But  with  the  school  I 
speak  of,  the  delirium  is  the  normal  state  of 
the  pulse;  and  poetry  would  seem  to  be  mere- 
ly one  long  gloating  chant  of  tyrannic  and 
slobbering  sensuality,  that  suggests  the  turgid 

94 


visions  of  an  insane  retreat,  and  the  propriety 
of  prompt  exhibition  of  a  strong  dose  of 
bromide  to  the  fevered  or  epileptic  versifier. 

What  Tennyson  thinks  of  that  sort  of  poet- 
ico-sexual  Katzenjammer  may  be  gathered 
from  the  fact  that  he  makes  Lucretius  speed 
his  departure  out  of  hfe  when  he  discovers,  or 
fancies  that  he  discovers,  what  a  degraded 
phenomenon  it  is,  under  given  conditions. 


Alfred 
TeniiysoTiy 
Poet 
Laureate. 


I  have  suggested  that  Tennyson  closes  a 
poetic  generation.  He  has  been  in  sympathy 
with  every  great  poet,  from  Dante  downward. 
He  is,  as  it  were,  the  end  of  the  Renaissance. 
After  all,  there  is  only  a  difference  of  degree, 
of  intensity  of  knowledge,  between,  say  Pe- 
trarch, Erasmus,  Bentley,  Dr.  Johnson,  Per- 
son, and  Dr.  Arnold.  All  belong  to  the  same 
order  of  thought,  used  the  same  materials — 
that  is  to  say,  they  rescued  the  fragments  of 
Greek  civilization  and  letters,  and  worked 
them  into  western  culture.  Those  materials, 
so  far  as  the  workmen  are  concerned,  are  ex- 
hausted. There  is  little  or  nothing  of  them 
that  is  not  being  manipulated  at  third  or 
fourth  hands.  There  must  be  details  told 
off  to  go  out  into  the  forests,  like  Homer's 
Achaians,  for  new  fuel.  The  precious  met- 
als of  the  Greek  revival  of  letters  have  been 


95 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


all  melted  down  and  thoroughly  mixed.  The 
old  plate  of  Asiatic  thought  must  now  go  into 
the  pot. 

Tennyson  felt  the  need  of  being  in  full  sym- 
pathy with  the  scholarship  of  his  day,  and  at- 
tained it.  But  the  new  poet,  the  possible 
worthy  successor  of  Tennyson,  must  not  rest 
with  Virgil  and  Theocritus,  Dante  and  Shak- 
spere,  as  his  masters  and  guides. 

He  must  go  back  to  the  cradle  of  the  world, 
peradventure,  to  find  there,  not  models,  but 
mysterious  metaphysical  forces,  wherewith  to 
vivify  his  verse.  This  new  poet,  whoever  he 
be,  this  lopas  to  come  after  the  Phemios  of 
Her  Majesty  Victoria's  court,  must,  in  any 
event,  as  part  of  his  poetic  task,  learn  to 
clothe  the  present  aridity  of  science  in  grace- 
ful garb.  He  must  be  a  Lucretius  to  the 
Memmii  of  the  next  race. 

How  he  will  work,  what  elements  he  will 
employ,  what  emotions  invoke,  we  of  this  age 
cannot  declare,  any  more  than  Coleridge 
could  have  foretold  the  success  and  glory  of 
Tennyson. 


96 


CHRONOLOGY 
OF  LITERATURE  AND   POLITICS, 

PREPARED   WITH   REFERENCE   TO   THE   BIOGRAPHY 
OF  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


August  5.    Alfred  Tennyson  born. 

In  the  same  year  were  born  William  E. 
Gladstone,  Cardinal  Manning,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning  (1807?),  Charles  R. 
Darwin,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  John 
Stuart  Blackie,  Edgar  Allen  Poe,  Lord 
Houghton  (R.  Monckton  Milnes),  Bishop 
Selwyn. 

Within  the  century,  and  to  be  regarded  as 
contemporaries,  were  born  Thomas  Bab- 
ington  Macaulay  (iSoo),  George  Bancroft 
(1800),  Edgar  Bouverie  Pusey  (1800),  John 
Henry  Newman  (1801),  Hugh  Miller 
(1802),  Harriet  Martineau  (1802),  Victor 
Hugo  (1802),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
(1803),  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804),  John 
Frederick  Denison  Maurice  (1805),  Bul- 
wer-Lytton  (1805),  Benjamin  Disraeli 
(1805),  John  Sterling  (1806),  John  Stuart 
Mill  (1806),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 
{1807),  Richard  Chenevix  Trench  (1807), 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807), 
Charles  Tennyson  Turner  (1808). 

Within  the  decade  succeeding  Tennyson's 
birth   were    born   Henry  Alford    (1810), 


97 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


1821. 

1822. 

1824. 
1825. 
1827. 


1828. 


1829. 


Alfred  de  Musset  (1810),  Arthur  Henry 
Hallam  (February,  181 1),  William  Make- 
peace Thackeray  (1811),  Robert  Lowe 
(181 1),  John  Bright  (181 1),  Robert  Brown- 
ing (1812),  Charles  Dickens  (1812),  Nor- 
man Macleod  (1812),  Charles  Reade 
(1814),  Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley  (1815), 
Anthony  Trollope(i8i5),  Charlotte  Bront^ 
(1816),  Tom  Taylor  (1817),  James  Anthony 
Froude  [circa  1818),  Her  Majesty  Queen 
Victoria  (1819),  Prince  Albert  (1819), 
Charles  Kingsley  (1819),  James  Russell 
Lowell  (1819),  John  Ruskin  (1819),  Her- 
bert Spencer  (1820),  John  Tyndall  (1820), 
Florence  Nightingale  (1820). 

Death  of  John  Keats  (born  1795). 

Bishop  Temple  (Essays  and  Reviews)  born. 

Death  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (born  1792). 

Alfred  Tennyson  writes  a  MS.  tale. 

Death  of  Lord  Byron  (born  1788). 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley  born. 

Death  of  Ugo  Foscolo  (born  1775). 

"Poems  by  Two  Brothers"  published 
May  19.  First  contemporary  criticism 
of  the  Poems  appeared  in  the  Literary 
Chronic  te. 

Death  of  Canning. 

Alfred  Tennyson  writes  "The  Lover's 
Tale"  (not  printed  till  1833). 

The  poet  takes  up  his  residence  at  Cam- 
bridge (Trinity  College). 

The  Poem  "Timbuctoo"  gains  the 
Chancellor's  Medal. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  born. 

Catholic  Relief  Bill  passed. 

98 


x83o. 
1831. 


1S32. 


1832-3 

1833- 
1834. 

1837- 


1840. 
99 


"Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical,"  published. 

John  Stuart  Mill  writes  a  favorable  criti- 
cism on. 

Dr.  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  the  poet's 
father,  dies. 

The  present  Lord  Lytton  (Owen  Meredith) 
born. 

A  poem  by  Tennyson  appears  in  "The 
Gem." 

Reform  Bill  passed. 

January.    Arthur  Hallam  leaves  Cambridge. 

Wilson  (Kit  North)  publishes  a  review  of 
Tennyson  in  Blackwood. 

Death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  (born  1771). 

Tennyson  publishes  sonnets  in  "The  York- 
shire Literary  Annual,"  and  in  "Friend- 
ship's Offering";  a  sonnet  published  by 
Edward  Tennyson. 

.  Second  Volume  of  Alfred  Tennyson's 
poems  published  by  Moxon. 

Sept.  15.  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  dies 
AT  Vienna. 

Death  of  Coleridge  (born  1772). 

January  3.  Hallam  buried  at  Clevedon 
Church,  Somersetshire. 

Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  ascends 
the  throne. 

Alfred  Tennyson  resident  at  Caistor,  Lin- 
colnshire, where  an  uncle  was  vicar. 

"St.  Agnes"  published  in  "The  Keep- 
sake." 

The  lines  in  Maud,  "O  that  'twere  possi- 
ble," published  in  "The  Tribute." 

Marriage  of  Queen  Victoria  with  Prince 
Albert. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


1841.  Birth  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

1842.  Poems    by    Alfred   Tennyson    in   two 

volumes  published. 

1843.  Death  of  Robert  Southey,   Poet  Lau- 

reate (born  1774). 

Charles  Algernon  Swinburne  born. 

Wordsworth  meets  Tennyson. 

Wordsworth  writes  eulogistically  of  Ten- 
nyson to  Professor  Reed. 

Death  of  John  Sterling. 

Tennyson  receives  a  pension  of  £100  from 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  prime  minister. 

January  31.  Tennyson  dines  at  the  poet 
Rogers'. 

Death  of  Thomas  Hood  (born  1798). 

"The  Princess,  a  Medley,"  published. 

Sir  John  Franklin  lost  in  the  Arctic  (born 
1786). 

Death  of  Lady  Blessington  (born  1789). 

June  13.  Tennyson  married  to  Emily, 
daughter  of  Henry  Sellwood,  Esq.,  of 
Horncastle  (a  niece  of  Sir  John  Franklin). 

April  23.  Death  of  William  Words- 
worth, Poet  Laureate  (born  1770). 

"In  Memoriam"  published.  Three  edi- 
tions appeared  the  same  year. 

Death  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  (born  1788). 

Death  of  Henry  Fitzmaurice  Hallam. 

Nov.    21.     Tennyson    Gazetted     Poet 
Laureate. 
1851.     March  6.     Tennyson  attends  the  Queen's 
Levee. 

The  seventh  edition  of  Tennyson's  poems 
appears. 

September.     Tennyson  in  France. 

100 


1844. 
1845. 


1847. 


1849. 
1850. 


i852. 


1854. 


1855. 


1856. 
1857. 


1859- 


Sept.  14.  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington (bom  1769). 

Death  of  Thomas  Moore  (born  1779). 

In  the  course  of  this  year  several  anti- 
GalHc  or  anti-Napoleonic  songs  appeared, 
supposed  to  be  by  the  Laureate.  (Two 
verses  addressed  to  America  omitted 
in  the  later  edition  of  "Hands  all  round.") 

Hallam  Tennyson  born  at  Twickenham, 
where  the  poet  then  resided. 

Death  of  Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd  (born 

1795)- 

John  Wilson  (Kit  North)  dies  (born  1785). 

Frederick  Tennyson  publishes  a  volume  of 
poems. 

Dec.  9.  "The  Charge  of  the  Light  Bri- 
gade" appears  in  the  Londo7i  Examiner. 

The  Poet  Laureate  is  admitted  to  the  hon- 
orary degree  of  D.  C.  L.  Oxon. 

"Maud,  and  Other  Poems,"  published. 

Death  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford  (born  1786). 

Death  of  Samuel  Rogers  (born  1763). 

Death  of  Hugh  Miller. 

"Enid"  and  "Nemuc"  privately  printed. 

Death  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 

Hawthorne  sees  Tennyson  at  Manchester. 

Bayard  Taylor  visits  Tennyson  at  the  Isle 
of  Wight. 

Death  of  Leigh  Hunt  (born  1784). 

Death  of  Thomas  Babington  Lord 
Macau  LAY. 

Death  of  Henry  Hallam  (born  1777). 

Death  of  Thomas  De  Quincey  (born  1785). 

Death  of  Washington  Irving  (bom 
1783). 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


July.     "Idylls  OF  the  King"  published. 
1861.    Death  of  the  Prince  Consort. 

Death  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing. 
1S63.     March    18.      "Welcome    to     Alexandra" 
published. 
Death  of  Thackeray. 
Death  of  Richard  Whately  (born  1787). 

1864.  Mrs.  Alfred  Tennyson  writes  a  song,  "Alma 

River." 
"Enoch  Arden"  published. 
Death    of    Walter    Savage    Landor  (born 

1775)- 
Death  of  Nathaniel  HAVifTHORNE. 

1865.  Death  of  Edward  Everett  (born  1794). 
Death  of  Lord  Palmerston  (born  1784). 
Alfred  Tennj'son  offered  a  baronetcy  and 

declines  it;  admitted  to  the  Royal  Society. 

1866.  Septimus  Tennyson,  a  brother  of  the  poet, 

dies  at  Cheltenham. 
Death  of  William  Whewell  (born  1795). 

1867.  Professor  Selwyn  publishes  a  Latin  version 

of  "Enoch  Arden." 
"The    Window;     or,    the    Loves    of    the 

Wrens,"   privately  printed    by  Sir  Ivor 

Guest. 
Set  to  music  by  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan. 

1868.  Alexander    Strahan    becomes    the    poet's 

publisher. 
Death  of  Henry  Hart  Milman  (born  1791). 
Death  of  Sir  David  Brewster  (born  1781). 
"Lucretius"  published  in  Macmillan^ s. 

1869.  The   poet  elected    an   honorary  fellow  of 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  removes  to 
Surrey. 

102 


1870. 

i87i. 
1872. 

1873- 

1874. 

1875- 
1S77. 
1S78. 

1879. 
1880. 


1881. 
103 


Death  of  the  Earl  of  Derby  (born  1799). 

Death  of  Charles  Dickens. 

"The  Holy  Grail,  and  Other  Poems," 
published  (4  new  idylls). 

Death  of  Henry  Alford. 

Death  of  George  Grote  (born  1794). 

"The  Last  Tournament"  published  in 
the  Contemporary  Review  for  December. 

"  Gareth  and  Lynette"  published. 

Death  of  Frederick  Maurice. 

Library  edition  in  six  volumes  of  Tenny- 
son's poems. 

Death  of  Lord  Bulwer-Lytton  (born 
1805). 

Death  of  John  Stuart  Mill. 

H.  S.  King  &  Co.  become  the  poet's  pub- 
lishers. 

"Queen  Mary"  published. 

"Harold"  published. 

Death  of  Earl  Russell  (born  1792). 

Birth  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  the  poet's 
grandson. 

"The  Revenge."     A  ballad  of  the  Fleet. 

Death  of  Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 

"The  Lover's  Tale"  republished. 

"The  Falcon"  performed  at  "The  St. 
James." 

"  Ballads,  and  Other  Poems,"  pub- 
lished; C.  Kegan  Paul  &  Co.  become 
the  poet's  publishers. 

Death  of  Frank  Buckland  (born  1826). 

Death  of  Tom  Taylor. 

Death  of  George  Eliot. 

"The  Cup"  performed  at  "The  Lyceum." 

Death  of  Thomas  Carlyle  (born  1795). 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Alfred 
Tennyson, 
Poet 
Laureate. 


Death  of  Lord  Beaconsfield. 

Death  of  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  (born  1805). 

1882.  Death    of   Henry  Wadsworth    Long- 

fellow. 
Death   of   Ralph    Waldo    Emerson    (born 

1803). 
Death  of  Charles  R.  Darwin. 
Death  of  Anthony  Trollope. 
Death  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 
"The    Promise    of    May"    performed    at 

"The  Globe." 

1883.  Takes  a  trip  with  Mr.  Gladstone  to  Copen- 

hagen, and  is  received  by  the  King  and 
Queen  of  Denmark,  the  Czar  and  Czarina, 
the  King  and  Queen  of  Greece,  and  the 
Princess  of  Wales. 

1884.  "Brackett,  and  Other  Plays." 
"The  Cup"  and  "The  Falcon." 

Is  offered  a  peerage  by  her  majesty,  and  is 
gazetted  Baron  of  Aldworth  and  Farring- 
ford  January  18. 

1885.  "  Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems." 

1886.  "Locksley  Hall,  Sixty  Years  After." 
1889.     "  Demeter,  and  Other  Poems." 

1892.     "The  Foresters,  Robin  Hood  and  Maid 

Marian." 
Death  of  George  William  Curtis. 
Death  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 
Death  of  Ernest  R^nan. 
Death  of  Tennyson,  October  6. 
"Aenone,  Akbar's   Dream,  and  Other 

Poems,"  published. 


104 


DITMARSCH    AND 
KLAUS  GROTH. 

A    PLATTDEUTSCH     CHAT. 

"  Beer  is  keen  Win,  Win  is  keen  Beer." 

[HERE  is  a  long  strip  of  the 
German  empire  (say  the  north- 
ern one  third,  extending  from 
the  Rhine  to  Russian  Poland, 
and  especially  comprising  the 
lower  Rhine  lands,  Westphalia,  Hanover, 
what  was  once  lower  Saxony,  Holstein — and 
Ditmarsch  —  Mecklenburg,  Pommern,  and 
Brandenburg),  to  the  natives  of  which  the 
language  of  Lessing  is  an  acquired  tongue. 
Their  vernacular,  the  speech  of  the  farm  and 
the  nursery,  is  a  mass  of  queer  crystalliza- 
tions of  expression,  with  few  grammatical 
inflections  to  keep  it  from  being  jumbled. 
It  is  only  when  the  young  North  German 
goes  to  school,  and  often  not  then,  that  he 
finds  his  tongue  in  the  quasi  Greek  harness 
of  conjugation  and  declension  which  marks 
High  German  —  the  language  of  Teutonic 
civilization  —  as  distinct  from  Low  German 
or  Plattdeutsch. 
105 


Ditmarsch       English  is   Plattdeutsch  ;    Dutch   is   Platt- 
Groth  deutsch;  but  inasmuch  as  both  English  and 

Dutch  have  acquired  a  sort  of  autonomy 
among  tongues,  the  name  Plattdeutsch  is 
rather  limited  to  the  unwritten,  or  more  cor- 
rectly, non-literary,  language  of  the  North 
German.  To  illustrate,  in  a  homely  way,  the 
affinities  of  the  two  speeches,  English  and 
Plattdeutsch,  let  us  suppose  that  we  take  a 
batch  of  fine-bolted  wheaten  flour;  bake  it, 
with  its  suitable  ingredients,  into  a  pancake; 
sprinkle  it  with  loaf-sugar;  smear  it  with  cur- 
rant jelly;  and  may  be,  scatter  over  it  a  little 
ground  cinnamon.  The  dish  will  represent 
the  English  tongue,  starting  with  the  wheaten 
flour  as  the  old  Saxon  and  Frisian  basis;  the 
sugar  being  the  Latin  addition;  the  currant 
jelly,  what  we  have  borrowed  from  the  French 
and  Normand;  and  the  cinnamon,  a  trifle  we 
have  picked  up  in  our  piratical  sea  maraudings 
from  the  Orientals.  But  if  you  bake  your 
cake  from  unbolted  flour,  and  eat  it  with  no 
fancy  additions,  that  would  be  the  Plattdeutsch 
of  Mecklenburg  and  Ditmarsch — a  healthful 
article,  good  for  the  teeth  and  the  complexion, 
but  all  full  of  lumps  and  rough  edges — homely 
black  bread,  as  it  were. 

If  you  have  ever  hung  over  a  grocery  coun- 
ter in  San  Francisco,  you  perhaps  have  no- 

io6 


ticed  that  the  grocer  talked  with  his  blond  Ditmarsch 
apprentice  in  a  tongue  that  sounded  strangely  Qyoi^ 
familiar,  but  unintelligible  ;  and  you  have, 
may  be,  imagined  that  it  might  be  very  cor- 
rupt English  spoken  with  a  strong  Germanic 
accent.  You  were  mistaken  a  little — it  was 
German  spoken  with  an  English  accent;  for 
the  accent  and  pronunciation  of  Plattdeutsch 
are  more  akin  to  English  than  are  those  of 
any  other  branch  of  the  Teutonic  stem.  Low 
German  consonants  are  not  bitten  so  sharply 
as  they  leave  the  mouth;  it  has  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  th,  which  High  German  has  not;  and 
its  vowels  are  not  so  broad  or  long  as  in  its 
more  aristocratic  sister. 

Put  the  tips  of  your  fingers  and  thumb  of 
one  hand  together.  If  you  call  the  thumb, 
with  its  insertion  far  down  at  the  wrist,  Platt- 
deutsch, the  forefinger  would  be,  let  us  say, 
Hollandish;  the  middle  finger,  English;  the 
third,  old  Low  German  of  Charlemagne's 
time;  and  the  little  finger.  Middle  Low  Ger- 
man; while  the  other  hand  might  be  called 
the  High  or  Upper  German  division,  com- 
mencing with  Luther's  New  High  German, 
and  ending  off  say  with  Ulfila's  Gothic  of  the 
fourth  century,  which,  however,  is  by  some 
philologists  ranked  as  the  parent  stem  of  both 
upper  and  lower  German,  and  by  some  as  a 
107 


Diiniarsch  purely  Low  German.      And  here  let  me  say 

and  Klaus   ^-i    ^    ?        r^  j  ^         •         ^^ 

Groth  ^"^^  ^^'^  German  does  not,   primarily,  mean 

vulgar  German;  nor  does  high  German  mean 
aristocratic.  Hill  German  and  plain  Ger- 
man would  be  better  renderings  of  hoch  and 
platt. 

Low  German  has  been  called  the  Doric 
German;  but  the  expression — though  as  re- 
gards its  rusticity  somewhat  happy — philo- 
logically,  is  incorrect.  If  the  classes  of  Greek 
writers  had  but  interchanged  tongues,  and  if 
Xenophon  and  Plato  had  written  Doric,  and 
Theocritus  had  written  Attic,  then  the  literary 
position  of  Low  German  would  be  that  of 
Attic  German,  as  you  might  say;  for  in  the 
matter  of  interchangeability  of  certain  of  the 
consonants,  and  the  closing  of  the  lips  for 
the  vowels,  Low  German  has  the  Atticism 
and  High  German  the  Doricism  on  the  scale 
of  phonetics. 

Scotch  has  been  called  the  Doric  branch  of 
English;  as  a  fact,  it  is  simply  purer  Saxon, 
and  I  might  almost  say,  a  closer  sib  of  the 
Plattdeutsch.  It  would  be  practical,  I  fancy, 
to  take  a  child  born  in  the  Lowlands,  and  by 
slow  migration  translate  him  to  Vienna  in 
such  easy  stages  that  he  would  never  be  able 
to  designate  when  or  where  he  left  his  English 
and   commenced  his  German,  nor  where  he 

1 08 


dropped  Plattdeutsch  and  entered  upon  High   Ditmarsch 
r^  and  Klaus 

German.  ^^^^^ 

There  are  probably  as  many  different  dia- 
lects of  Low  German  as  there  are  villages. 
Uniformity  in  that  regard  is  as  impossible,  in 
fact,  as  to  find  vernacular  English  unchange- 
able as  you  go  from  one  district  in  England 
to  another.  It  is  the  result  of  there  being  no 
written  standard.  Webster's  spelling-book 
has,  in  America,  given  us  a  sort  of  metallic 
tuning-fork,  by  which  a  certain  degree  of 
faulty  uniformity  has  been  gained;  but  when 
there  are  no  written  records,  a  language  is 
apt  to  vary  with  every  wind  that  blows — in 
short,  to  be  modified  according  to  every 
special  influenza  that  attacks  the  human  air- 
passages,  and  to  be  the  victim  of  every  snuffle 
or  whine  that  may  be  in  vogue.  Plattdeutsch 
has  had  no  written  standard,  to  give  it  a  tram- 
way, for  over  two  hundred  years. 

Hence  Ditmarsch  Plattdeutsch  is  other,  in 
some  regards,  than  Mecklenburg  Plattdeutsch; 
and  the  Hanoverian  has  a  different  speech 
from  him  of  Pommern. 

Plattdeutsch  once,  however,  was  literary; 
it  had  chronicles,  legends,  poems  ("  Reynard 
the  Fox"  was  originally  Plattdeutsch),  and  a 
mediaeval  written  existence.  One  might  class 
certain  grand  poems  —  now  growing  into 
109 


Ditmarsch  popularity  in  a  Wagnerian   sort  of  way — as 
QyQtfi  Middle    Plattdeutsch;   and   the    Plattdeutsch 

Genius  of  Language,  looking  back  to  his 
mediaeval  school-days,  might  well  say,  in  a 
proud  way,  to  his  High  German  brother,  as 
Entspekter  Brasig  was  wont  to  boast  to  his 
old  school  friend,  Hawermann :  "In  dem 
Stil,  Korl,  war  ich  Dich  doch  iiber." 

But  the  High  German  Luther,  one  day, 
handed  in  his  exercise  in  the  shape  of  a 
translation  of  the  Bible;  and  it  won  so  much 
praise  from  the  pedagogues,  and  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  that  the  slow  Plattdeutscher  flung 
down  his  copy-book  in  disgust,  and  went 
back  to  his  farm,  and  abused  his  cattle,  and 
made  love,  and  quarrelled,  in  his  humble 
tongue,  and  but  rarely  thereafter  cared  to  see 
himself  down  in  black  and  white.  So  Platt- 
deutsch ceased  to  be  written  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  seventeenth  century;  it  then  be- 
came essentially  a  vulgar  tongue — a  peasant's 
patois,  almost.  But  an  occasional  bookworm 
looked  into  its  old  chronicles,  and  made  glos- 
saries, and  discussed  it  as  if  it  were  already  a 
corpse  on  the  philological  dissecting-table. 

It  became  the  triumph  of  a  modest  Dit- 
marsch school-teacher  to  show  that  there  was 
a  current  of  blood  yet  in  the  Plattdeutsch 
language. 


Klaus  Groth  was  born  at  Heide  (Heath),  Ditmarsch 
a  market-town  of  Holstein,  or  rather  of  Dit-  Qyoth 
marsch,  April  24,  1819.  To  appreciate  our 
author,  it  is  as  necessary  to  understand  his 
native  place  as  it  is  to  know  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der to  read  Scott,  or  the  Hudson  to  grow 
fond  of  Irving.  Ditmarsch  is  the  northwest 
corner  of  Germany,  between  the  outlets  of 
the  Elbe  and  Eider.  Heide,  a  borough  town 
in  the  middle  of  the  northern  half,  became  a 
very  flourishing  place  in  1450,  by  reason  of 
its  being  the  capital  established  by  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  so-called  "  Forty-eight,"  who 
form  the  centre  of  the  traditional  picture  of 
the  grand  days  of  the  Ditmarsch  in  a  political 
aspect. 

It  was  near  Heide — to  wit,  at  Hemming- 
sted,  an  adjoining  parish — that  the  battle 
was  fought  in  A.  D.  1500,  June  17th,  in 
defense  of  the  freedom  of  Ditmarsch  against 
King  John  of  Denmark,  the  Duke  of  Hol- 
stein, and  Schlenz,  the  leader  of  the  mer- 
cenaries called  "  The  Guard,"  in  which  fight, 
the  boors,  under  Wolf  Isebrand,  completely 
routed  the  King's  forces  and  slew  the  Junker 
Schlenz,  who  fell  at  the  head  of  his  band. 
The  elements  helped  the  boors,  and  espe- 
cially the  opening  of  the  dikes  or  bulkheads, 
whereby  the  battle-field  was  flooded. 


Ditmarsch       Heide  was  afterwards — ^June  13,  1559 — de- 
Groth  stroyed  utterly,  and  the  Ditmarschers  forced 

to  swear  allegiance  to  their  royal  neighbor, 
but  sprang  quickly  into  a  prosperity  which, 
as  the  centre  of  a  well-cultivated  agricultural 
community,  it  retained. 

Ditmarsch  is  divided  physically  into  two 
very  distinctive  kinds  of  land,  namely,  Marsch, 
and  Geest — Marsch  land  being  the  moist, 
fertile  lands  watered  from  the  down-pouring 
brooks  and  springs,  shut  in  from  the  ocean 
by  dikes  and  earthworks,  dams  and  gates, 
flat,  unbroken  by  anything  of  large  growth, 
save  where  on  a  hillock,  here  and  there,  a 
pair  of  trees  hang  shadily  over  the  farmer's 
home.  On  the  other  hand,  Geest  (barren)  is 
sand-dune,  difficult  of  cultivation  (like  the 
San  Francisco  Park),  where  the  huntsman 
has  moderate  sport  after  hares  and  rabbits, 
and  where  few  acres  now  and  then  pay  for 
cultivation.  It  is  in  allusion  to  this  Marsch 
and  Geest  distinction  that  the  possessions  of 
the  Duke  of  Oldenburg  were  likened  to  Pha- 
raoh's seven  fat  and  seven  lean  kine,  the 
Geest  representing  the  lean  and  the  Marsch 
the  well-fed  beasts. 

If  Alameda  County  could  be  cut  out  of  its 
present  place  and  spread  out  and  smoothed 
down  on  the  western  side  of  San  Francisco, 


which  should  be  sunk  into  the  bay,  the  tract  Ditmarsch 
so  formed  would  be  something  like  Ditmarsch.    QyQth 
It  would  want  Sherman  Island  to  be  planted 
out    in   the  ocean    to  represent  Biisum   and 
the  so-called   "Koog"  land;  and  there  must 
needs  be  frost  and  snow  to  add  to  the  effect. 

A  country  of  hedges,  of  embankments,  of 
canals,  of  fields  cut  squarely  by  rectangular 
lines  of  ditch,  of  farms  in  like  manner  divided 
with  broader  water-ways,  of  green  fields,  fat 
cows,  sturdy  oxen,  thatched  roofs  with  the 
stork  sentinel  upon  them,  a  land  of  careful 
farming,  of  broad-shouldered  {sb'oni  is  the 
word)  men,  of  clean,  ruddy,  flax-haired 
women — that  is  Ditmarsch  in  its  best  aspect. 
It  is  a  comfortable  place,  w'here  the  boor  (in 
Ditmarsch,  an  honorable  word,  like  squire  in 
New  England)  sits  in  his  quaint  old  house, 
hears  the  lowing  of  his  fat  cattle  as  they  are 
driven  to  feed  at  their  stalls  from  the  juicy 
hay,  and  gossips  about  the  parish  interests; 
while  afar  off  rolls  up  the  roar  of  the  Haff, 
to  remind  him  how  large  a  world  there  is 
beyond  his  little  corner,  which  may  pour  in 
upon  him  and  sink  him  and  his  possession  as 
was  Biisum  of  old. 

Ditmarsch  is  in  a  good  sense  what  one 
might  call  communistic.  Its  legal  organization 
is  a  legacy  from  its  older  days.     It  consists 


Ditniarsch  of  two  provinces,  North  and  South  Ditmarsch, 
Groth  which  in  turn  are  divided  into  parishes.     The 

province  has  for  prefect  a  native  Ditmarscher; 
each  parish  has  for  mayor  (  Vagi)  a  native 
appointed  from  three  proposed  candidates 
elected  by  the  boor  class,  which  election  is  for 
life.  Out  of  these  elected  deputies  the  pro- 
vincial Diet  is  formed.  Of  course  the  deputy 
(  Vullniacli)  is  an  eminently  respectable  boor. 
The  parish  mayor,  with  a  clerk  {Schriwef), 
is  the  ex  officio  notary,  registrar  of  wills,  etc. ; 
and  the  mayors  with  the  Landvogt  form  the 
provincial  court.  The  code  in  use  is  particu- 
larly Ditmarschish,  a  relic  of  their  days  of  in- 
dependence. The  boor  is  essentially  as  much 
a  Tory  as  any  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  could 
be.  He  has  the  doctrine  of  primogeniture, 
and  in  short  every  other  pet  faith  of  an 
English  country  gentleman,  in  his  marrow. 
He  is  proud,  rather  despises  the  Geest  folks, 
and  patronizes  the  petty  farmers  and  peasants 
struggling  for  life  in  his  vicinage.  He  has 
many  virtues  and  few  vices;  and  has  about 
as  much  appreciation  of  red  republicanism 
and  its  excited  antics  as  a  ruminating  ox 
would  have  of  the  feelings  of  a  famished 
wolf  In  old  days  his  ancestors  fought  well 
for  liberty.  It  would  seem  that  he  has  it. 
His  struggle  with  the  ocean  has  made  him 

114 


vigilant.     With  less  promise  in  his  undertak-   Ditmarsch 
1  .  r  1       1    •  r  ii-  ^    <^nd  Klaus 

ing,  his  corner  oi  land    is   one  oi   the  most  Qygth 

fertile  and  charming  in  its  way  in  all  Ger- 
many. He  keeps  squalor  and  misery  aloof, 
just  as  he  watches  the  dike  and  flood,  by 
always  keeping  work  in  hand.  So  much  for 
Ditmarsch,  the  birthplace  of  our  poet. 

Groth  commenced  his  education  at  Ton- 
dern,  at  a  seminary.  He  could  not  attend 
a  university,  either  on  account  of  his  weak 
health  or  want  of  funds;  and  accordingly 
received  a  modest  appointment  as  teacher  of 
a  girls'  school  at  Heide.  While  so  engaged, 
he  pursued  his  studies,  and  made  distin- 
guished progress  in  mathematics,  natural 
science,  and  ancient  and  modern  languages. 
It  was  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  he  was  so  cut 
short  in  the  curriculum  of  school  and  uni- 
versity. He  had  the  talents  and  perceptive 
powers  of  a  great  philologist;  but  had  he 
followed  an  academic  career,  it  is  possible 
that,  in  lieu  of  the  charming  lyrics  of  his 
native  land,  he  might  have  given  us  little 
beyond  the  dry  bones  of  philological  muse- 
ums, fit  to  be  cased  up  in  grammars  and 
dictionaries,  but  not  affording  the  delight 
which  his  actual  work  has  produced  to  his 
legion  of  admirers. 

In   1847,   his   head   was    knocking  against 

115 


Ditmarsch  the  ceiling  of  his  girls'  school,  and  he  gave 
Grotii.  ^P  ^^  place,  intending  to  enter  a  university; 

but,  on  account  of  his  health,  abandoned  the 
project,  and  settled  at  Femarn,  where  he 
resided  for  six  years  and  wrote  most  of  his 
poems.  In  1853,  he  betook  himself  to  Kiel, 
to  be  near  the  university  there. 

In  1852,  at  Hamburg,  he  published  his 
charming  collection  of  lyrics,  and  other 
poems,  entitled  Quickborn,  Volksleben  in 
plattdeutschen  Gedichten  dihnarscher  Mzui- 
dart.  Quickborn  is  the  name  of  a  spring 
in  Ditmarsch,  which  runs  both  summer  and 
winter,  never  failing  or  freezing. 

The  volume  has  gone  through  many  edi- 
tions; its  contents  are  household  words  from 
one  end  of  Germany  to  the  other;  and  it  was 
owing  probably  to  their  success  and  popu- 
larity that  Fritz  Renter  was  encouraged  to 
try  a  similar  experiment  with  the  Mecklen- 
burg dialect. 

The  Quickborn  now  before  me  (ed.  1873, 
Berlin)  opens  with  a  poem  to  "My  Mother 
Tongue"  {Miii  Moderspi'ak),  which  for  pa- 
thos and  tenderness  recalls  some  of  the 
sweetest  verses  of  Burns.  Indeed,  it  is  evi- 
dent, all  through  the  book,  that  while  the 
poet  does  not  seek  to  copy  the  Scotch  poets, 
he    has   studied   them    very  closely;    and   in 

116 


"Hans    Schander"    he    has    fairly   localized  Ditmarsch 
"Tarn    O'Shanter   and    his    Mare."      "  Min  Qyoth. 
Annamedder  "   is  a  very  Plattdeutsch  ' '  Airy- 
Fairy  Lillian." 

Veer  de  Gcern  (For  the  Children)  consists 
of  a  number  of  songs,  verses,  and  prose,  two 
of  which  I  append,  with  translations,  at  the 
same  time  begging  the  critical  reader  not 
to  be  too  hard  upon  my  versions,  as  I  in- 
tended them  only  as  crutches  whereby  the 
tyro  in  German  might  travel  through  the 
original  in  parallel  columns  without  too  much 
trouble. 

' '  De  Krautfru ' '  (The  Crab-Woman)  is  a 
charming  bit  of  description  of  a  local  char- 
acter, with  the  load  of  poverty  and  basket  of 
crabs  on  her  back,  and  withal  a  strong  fund 
of  uncomplaining  good  sense  in  her  heart. 
It  is  less  refined,  but  more  definite  as  a  pic- 
ture of  character,  than  Chamisso's  "Poor 
Washerwoman."  Wat  sik  dat  Volk  vertellt 
is  a  series  of  grugely  (to  borrow  a  German 
word)  stories,  to  be  told  by  a  warm  fire,  with 
ghosts  shivering  outside  :  ' '  How  Old  Biisum 
was  Engulfed,"  "  Master  John,"  "  Dat  gruli 
Hus"  (The  Haunted  House),  and  "Hans 
Iwer,  the  werewolf"  "  Ut  de  ole  Krbnk" 
(Out  of  the  Old  Chronicle)  are  ballads  as  to 
the  struggles  of  the  mediaeval  Ditmarschers 
117 


Ditmarsch  for  liberty.      I  append   "  De  Slacht  bi  Hem- 
Groth.  mingsted,"  and  "  De  letzte  Feide." 

"  Wi  gingn  tosam  to  Feld"  has  a  faint 
flavor  of  "John  Anderson,  my  Jo,  John," 
but  nothing  hke  plagiarism,  even  to  the 
touchiest  fault-finder.  "  Vullmacht  sin  Twes- 
chens "  is  a  thoroughly  lovers'  ditt}^'  and 
shows  how  deeply  the  local  life  and  its  be- 
longings had  worked  into  the  young  poet's 
heart.  Indeed,  it  is  the  local  coloring  and 
freshness  that  make  the  poems  so  captivat- 
ing. In  picking  out  a  number  of  pieces  to 
serve  as  examples,  I  have  doubted  if  I  have 
selected  the  most  appropriate,  all  having  a 
special  charm  in  severalty. 

Groth  has  published  some  prose  Vertelln 
(Tellings,  or  Tales)  of  great  originality;  but 
his  lyrics  and  ballads  throw  them  so  much 
in  the  shade,  that  it  is  likely  that  his  earliest 
and  youthful  work  will  ever  be  the  most 
popular. 

The  poet  has  received  from  the  Univer- 
sity of  Bonn  the  academic  honor  of  Doctor 
of  Philosophy;  and  none  could  more  richly 
deserve  such  a  tribute  for  his  services  to  his 
vernacular  tongue. 

In  looking  over  popular  works  on  lan- 
guage (so  as  to  be  sure  that  I  had,  in  the 
foregoing,  thrust  forth  no  twig  of  philological 

iiS 


heresy),  I  came  upon  an  article  by  the  great   Ditmarsch 
^        •  r  TIT        Tv-r-ii  ^u      (^^d  Klaus 

Oxonian   professor,    Max    Muller,  upon   the  Croth. 

language  of  Schleswig-Holstein.  At  first  I 
was  frightened  lest  I  had  been  trifling  with 
a  subject  which  had  already  been  fully  dis- 
cussed by  a  master  and  arch-priest  in  the 
temple  of  tongues;  but  I  find  that,  to  the 
American  reader,  my  chat  will  be  modestly 
supplemental,  at  least;  and  to  such  as  have 
not  already  read  ' '  Chips  from  a  German 
Workshop,"  I  recommend  the  perusal  of 
the  article  in  question  (Vol.  III.)-  Some  of 
the  selections  there  from  Groth  I  would  have 
liked  to  adopt,  particularly  "  Ole  Biisum," 
but  I  have  already  usurped  more  space  than 
was  my  original  intention. 

We  would  encourage  all  American  students 
of  German  to  look  into  the  Plattdeutsch  dia- 
lect, even  before  they  have  finished  strug- 
gling with  the  High  German  branch.  They 
will  find  in  Groth  and  Reuter  expressions 
that  are  old  acquaintances;  and,  in  a  literary 
point  of  view,  there  is  something  healthy 
and  hearty  in  the  naturalism  of  the  sketches 
of  the  North  German's  life,  like  a  red- 
cheeked  apple,  which  has  not  the  mouldy- 
orange  realism  of  the  modern  literary  mob 
that  believe  in  the  Zola  creed. 


119 


SELECTIONS   FROM  "QUICKBORN." 


FOR  CHILDREN.— STILL,  MY  JOHNNY! 

Still,  my  Johnny!  list  to  me; 

In  the  straw  queaks  mousey  wee; 

On  the  twig  the  birdies  sleep, 

Close  their  wings,  and,  dreaming,  peep. 

Still,  my  Johnny!  cry  no  more; 

Bogy  waits  outside  the  door — 

The  moon  is  passing  through  the  skies — 

"Which  child  is't  here  that  cries  ?  " 

O'er  the  tree  so  still  and  bare. 

O'er  the  house,  through  Heaven  and  where 

Gentle  children  meet  the  eye — 

Look !  he  smiles  down  jollily. 

Then  to  Bogy  doth  he  say, 
"  Let's  be  getting  on  our  way." 
So  they  go  and  stand  together 
There  above  the  moor  and  heather. 

Still,  my  Johnny!  sleep  away — 
He'll  be  back  with  dawning  day, 
Shining  down  with  yellow  light 
O'er  the  tree,  from  Heaven  so  bright. 

The  yellow  flowers  the  grass  among; 
From  apple-boughs  birds  chirp  a  song. 
Still,  and  close  thine  eyes  to  rest — 
Hear  the  mousey  in  his  nest. 


SELECTIONS   FROM  "QUICKBORN." 


VOER   DE   GOERN.— STILL,   MIN    HANNE ! 

Still,  mill  Hanne,  hor  mi  to  ! 
Liittje  Miise  pipt  int  Stroh, 
Liittje  Vageln  slapt  in  Bom, 
Rohrt  de  Fliink  un  pipt  in  Drom. 

Still,  min  Hanne,  hor  mi  an  ! 

Buten  geit  de  bose  Mann, 

Baben  geit  de  stille  Maan  : 

"  Kind,  wull  hett  dat  Schrigen  dan?" 

Aewern  Bom  so  still  un  blank, 
Aewert  Hus  an  Heben  lank, 
Un  wo  he  frame  Kinner  siiht, 
Kik  mal  an,  wa  lacht  he  blid  !" 

Denn  seggt  he  to  de  bose  Mann, 
Se  wiillt  en  beten  wider  gan, 
Denn  gat  se  beid,  denn  stat  se  beid 
Aewert  Moor  un  aewer  de  Heid. 

Still,  min  Hanne,  slap  mal  rar! 
Morgen  is  he  wedder  dar ! 
Rein  so  gel,  rein  so  blank, 
Aewern  Bom  an  Himmel  lank. 

All  int  Gras  de  gelen  Blom ! 
Vageln  pipt  in  Appeldom, 
Still  un  mak  de  Ogen  to, 
Liittje  Miise  pipt  int  Stroh. 


Ditmarsch 
and  Klaus 
Groth. 


THERE  DWELT  A    MAN. 

There  dwelt  a  man  in  meadows  green, 
Who  hadn't  a  cup  or  platter  e'en. 
To  passing  brook  for  drink  he  stooped, 
And  cherries  plucked  that  o'er  him  drooped. 

A  jolly  man  !     A  jolly  man  ! 
He'd  never  a  pot;  he'd  never  a  pan. 
He  ate  the  apples  off  the  tree. 
And  slept  in  clover  cosily. 

The  sun  for  him  was  time-piece  good; 
His  bird-house  was  the  shady  wood; 
They  sang  to  him  nights,  above  his  head. 
And  waked  him  up  with  the  dawning  red. 

This  man  (oh,  what  a  silly  man  ! ) 

To  be  o'ernice  at  last  began. 

To  be  too  fussy,  he  began — 

We've  lived  in  houses  e'er  since  then — 

Come  !     Let's  off  to  the  green  again  ! 


THE  FIGHT  AT   HEMMINGSTED. 

(February  17,  1500.) 

"  There  lay  his  steed,  there  lay  his  sword, 
And  with  them,  kingly  crown." 

— Ditmarsch  Folksong. 

The  King  unto  the  Duke  did  say  :    "O  brother  of 

my  heart, 
How  can   we  make   this  free   Ditmarsch   of  our 

brave  realm  a  part?" 

Reinhold  of  Milan  heard  the  speech   (of  tawny 

beard  was  he) ; 
And  answered  straight :  "  Unto  the  Guard,  for  aid, 

send  presently." 


DAR   WAHN   EN   MANN.  Ditmarsch 

and  Klaits 
Dar  wahn  en  Mann  int  grone  Gras  Groth. 

De  harr  keen  Schiittel,  harr  keen  Tass, 
De  drunk  dat  Water,  wo  he't  funn, 
De  pliick  de  Kirschen,  wo  se  stunn'. 

Wat  weert  en  Mann  !    wat  weert  en  Mann ! 
De  harr  ni  Putt,  de  harr  ni  Pann, 
De  eet  de  Appein  vun  den  Bom, 
De  harr  en  Bett  vun  Inter  Blom. 

De  Siinn  dat  weer  sin  Taschenuhr, 
Dat  Holt  dat  weer  sin  Vagelbur, 
De  sungn  em  Abends  aewern  Kopp, 
De  wecken  em  des  Morgens  op. 

De  Mann  dat  weer  en  narrschen  Mann, 
De  Mann  de  fung  dat  Gruweln  an. 
De  Mann  de  fung  dat  Gruweha  an  : 
Nu  maet  wi  All  in  Hiiser  wahn'. — 
Kumm  mit,  wi  wiillt  int  Grone  gan ! 

DE  SLACHT   BI   HEMMINGSTED. 

(1500,  Febr.  17.) 

Dar  lag  do  sin  Perd,  dar  lag  sin  Swert, 
Darto  de  koiiiglike  Krone. 

— Ditmarscher  Volkslied. 

De   Konig  to   den   Herzog  sprok :     Och   hartley 

Broder  min, 
Wa  krigt  wi  dat  frie  Ditmarscher  Land  ?    segg  an, 

wa  kamt  wi  in? 

As    dat    Reinold    vun   Mailand     hor,    de  mit  sin 

gelen  Bart, 
Do  seggt  he,  wi  schickt  de  Garr  en  Bad,  dat  uns 

en  Bistand  ward. 


Ditmarsch  When  to  the  Guard  the  message  came,  they  mus- 
and  Klaus  tered  many  a  sword; 

Uro  I.  They  gathered  fifteen  thousand  men,  and  o'er  the 

Heath  they  poured. 

And  when  the  Guard  were  with  the  King,  "My 

liege  "  ('twas  said  in  mirth), 
"Where    lieth    then    this    Ditmarsch    land?      In 

Heaven  or  on  earth?" 

"  If  'tis  not  bound  with  chains  to  Heaven,  and  if 

on  earth  it  Hes" — 
So,  vaunting,  spake  the  Junker  Schlenz — "We'll 

make  it  soon  our  prize." 

He  bade  the  drummers  roll  their  drums — his  stan- 
dards gayly  fly. 

And  so,  o'er  road  and  bridge,  they  came,  till  they 
our  land  espy. 

"Now  ware  thee,  boor — the  Guard — it  comes"; 

from  Meldorf  was  their  course; 
The  helms  and   hauberks  shone  like  gold — like 

silver  gleamed  the  horse. 

King  John  and  his  proud  lords  advance,  in  all  the 

pomp  of  power, 
While  'neath  a  wall  at  Braken,  Wolf  and  his  poor 

landsmen  cower. 

The  Meldorf  road,  in  black'ning  line,  full  thirty 

thousand  tread — 
From  Worden  came  a  slender  troop — a  maiden  at 

their  head. 

"Help  us,  O  God,  who  dost  all  things  in  Heaven 

and  earth  dispose" — 
Wolf  Isebrand  dashes  from  his  fort— two  hundred 

followed  close. 

124 


Sobald  de  Garr  dat  Wort  man  hor,  riist'  se  sik  Dilmarsch 

machti  sehr,  and  Klaus 

Se  riist'  wul  fofteindusent  Mann,  un  trock  daer  de  ^^^''^• 
Heiloh  her. 

Un  as  de  Garr  bi  den  Konig  keem :    "  Och  Herr, 

niin  lewe  Herr, 
Wo    liggt    denn    nu    dat    Ditmarscher  Land,    in 

Heben  oder  op  de  Eer?" 

"  Das  nich  mit  Keden  ann  Himmel  bunn',  op  Eern 

is  dat  to  finn'." 
Do  sa  de  Junker  Slenz  mit  Stolt:    denn  wiillt  wi't 

bald  gewinn' ! 

He  leet  de  Trummelslager  slan,  de  Faiinn  de  leet 

he  fleegn, 
Se   trocken   ut  aewer  Weg  un  Steg  bet  se   dat 

Liindken  seegn. — 

"  Nu  wahr  di  Bur,  de  Garr  de  kumt,"  vun  Moldorp 

jagt  se  her, 
De  Helm  un  Panzers  schint  as  Gold,  as  Siilwer 

schint  de  Per. 

Konig  Hans  un  all  wat  Adel  kumt  mit  groten  Larm 

un  Schall, 
De  Wulf  de  lurt  mit  wiicke  Burn  bi  Braken  achtem 

Wall. 

Vun  Moldorp  trock  dat  swart  hendal,  wul  dortig 

dusent  Mann : 
Vun  Worden  il  en  liitten  Tropp,  en  Maden  gung 

vaeran. 

"So  holp  uns,  Herr,  du  hest  dat  Rik  in  Himmel 

un  op  Eer!" 
Wulf  Isebrand  stortt  ut  de  Schanz,  twee  Hunnert 

achterher. 

125 


Groth. 


Dittnarsch   And  on  the    chain-coats   rained  the  blows,    and 
and  Klaus  knights  rolled  in  the  sand; 

And  from  the  Geest  the  landsmen  came;  and  the 
flood  poured  o'er  the  land; 

And  down  from  Heaven  came  the  snow;  on  horse 

and  man  fell  blows — 
Dim  grows  the  Moor;  the  Geest  is  white;  but  red 

the  passage  grows. 

The  landsmen  cry:    "The  horses  slay;  but  riders 

let  us  spare  "; 
And   barefoot  with  their  bills  they  sprang;    and 

their  foes  fell  everywhere; 

Till  to  the  trenches  driven  down,  all  in  the  mire 

they  crawled; 
Along  the  dike,  both  man  and  beast  in  hopeless 

struggle  sprawled. 

"Now  ware  thee,  Guard — the  boor — he  comes"; 

he  comes  with  Lord  our  God; 
From  Heaven  above,  the  snow  descends;   from 

under,  mounts  the  flood. 

And  distant  hamlets  send  their  aid;  and   fainter 

hearts  grow  bold — 
"Now  spare  the  horse,  we'll  ride  them  yet,  but 

strike  the  riders  cold." 

The  mud  wrapt  many  a  knightly  form  once  swathed 
in  silken  fold; 

At  swine-moor  now  rests  many  a  one  whose  cra- 
dle was  of  gold. 

No  name    so    great    in    Holstein  all,  or    Danish 

marches  proud — 
There  sleep  they  without  cross  or  stone;  there  lie 

they  without  shroud. 

126 


Un  op  de  Panzers  fulln  de  Slag',  un  Riiters  in  den  Ditmarsch 

Sand  ^'"^  Klaus 

Un  vun  de  Geest  dar  keemn  de  Burn,  un  de  Floth  ^'^    ' 
keem  aewert  Land. 

Un  dal  vun  Heben  full  de  Snee,  op  Per  un  Minsch 

de  Slag', 
Blank  war  dat  Moor  un  witt  de  Geest,  un  bl5di 

warn  de  Steg'. 

De  Buern  schregen :    stekt  de  Per  un  schont  de 

Riiterknechts ! 
Un   sprungn  barfot  mit   Kluwerstock    un    slogen 

links  un  rechts. 

Un    reten    inne    Groben   dal    un    stortten    se    in 

Slamm, 
Bet   Minsch   un  Veh  sik   drangn   un   drungn   all 

langs  den  smallen  Damm. 

"  Nu  wahr  di  Garr,  de  Bur  de   kumt!"  he  kumt 

mit  Gott  den  Herrn, 
Vun  Heben  fallt  de  Snee  heraf,  de  Floth  de  stiggt 

vun  nerrn. 

Un  wit  ut  alle  Dorpen  her  kumt  Holp  un  frischen 

Moth : 
"  Nu  schont  de  Per— de  ridt  wi  noch — un  slat  de 

Riiters  dot!" 

In  Slick  un  Slamm  sack  menni  Herr,  de  sunst  op 

Siden  leeg, 
Int  Swinmoor  liggt  nu   menni  Een,  de   harr  en 

golden  Weeg. 

Keen   Nam  so   grot  int   Holstenland   un   nich  in 

Diinnemark, 
Dar  ligt  se  nu  ahn  Kriiz  un  Steen,  dar  ligt  se  ahn 

en  Sark. 
127 


Groth. 


Ditmarsch   The  Guard  went  down  with  Junker  Schlenz— that 
and  Klaus  man  so  fierce  to  dare; 

The  saddler  tall  fiom  Wimersted,  he  came  and 
slew  him  there. 

In   direful  need   King  John  escaped  the  field — a 

woefiil  man; 
At  Meldorf  left  he  beer  and  wine,  and  roast-joint 

in  the  pan. 

A  feast  prepared  !    Through  need  and  death,  we, 

Freedom's  heirs,  came  out, 
By  Isebrand's  aid,    "the   devil's   own,"  and   the 

"  Thousand-de'ils-redoubt." 


THE    FINAL    OATH    OF    VASSALAGE. 
(June  20,  1559.) 

Not  a  spoken  word — not  a  voice  or  sound — 
Like  sheep  in  the  meadow  stood  they; 

They  stood  like  a  riven  forest  there 
Where  Heide  in  ruins  lay. 

For,  far  and  near,  the  best  in  the  land 
Were  crushed  like  the  reedy  brake; 

And  the  remnant  waited  on  bended  knee 
Their  oath  to  a  lord  to  take. 

And  many  a  heart  in  its  breast  beat  high; 

Through  the  veins  the  blood  coursed  hot; 
But  their  eyes  looked  over  the  land  through  tears, 

And  the  dry  lips  murmured  not. 

For  those  who  were  foremost  in  peace  and  war — 

Their  chieftains  wise  and  bold — 
Those  now  on  the  field  at  Heide  slept, 

In  the  mire  and  ashes  cold. 

128 


De  Garr  de  full  mit  Junker  Slenz,  so  grot  un  stolt   Ditmarsch 
he  weer,  (^nd  Klaus 

De  lange  Reimer  Wimersted,  de  keem  un  steek   ^^°^"^- 
em  daer. 

Mit  nauer  Noth,  in  Angst  un  Sorg   keem  Konig 

Hans  dervan ; 
In  Moldorp  leet  he  Beer  un  Win  un  Bradens  inne 

Pann. 

Dat  gev  en  Fest!   na   Noth  un  Dod,  un   Friheit 

weer  dat  Arf. 
Dat  mak  de  Diiwels  Isebrand  un  de  Dusentdiiwels- 

warf ! 


DE    LETZTE    FEIDE. 
(1559.  Juni  20.) 

Nich  en  Wort  war  hort,  nich  en  Stimm,  nich  en  Lut, 

Se  stunn'  as  de  Schap  oppe  Weid, 

Se  stunn'  as  de  Rest  vun  en  dalslan  Holt, 

To  Foten  de  Triimmer  vun  Heid. 

So  wit  man  seeg,  de  Besten  ut  Land, 

Dar  weern  se  fuUn  as  dat  Reeth  : 

Nu  stunn  noch  de  Rest  un  sack  oppe  Knee — 

Se  swert  nu  en  Herrn  den  Eed. 

Dar  klopp  wul  menni  Hart  inne  Bost, 

Un  dat  Blot  dat  krop  un  steeg, 

Doch  de  Ogen  gungn  mit  Thran  aewert  Land, 

Un  de  Mund  weer  stumm  un  sweeg. 

Denn  wit  umher  de  Besten  ut  Land 

In  Freden  un  Strit  vaerut, 

De  legen  nu  dot  oppet  Feld  vun  Heid 

Un  stumm  iinner  Asch  un  Schutt. 

129 


Dittnarsch   Not  a  sound  was  heard  save  the  Haff' s  wild  roar, 
and  Klaus       As  the  priest  their  troth  records, 
^'^    '  While  the  people  of  Ditmarsch  were  prostrate  there, 

And  the  Eight-and-forty  Lords. 

Blue  was  the  sky,  and  their  tend' rest  green 
The  woods  and  the  meadows  wore; 

But  the  Ditmarschers  watered  the  sod  with  tears 
For  the  freedom  they  saw  no  more. 


THE    DEPUTY'S    TWIN    DAUGHTERS. 

There's  a  laugh  from  the  garden  there  hid    by 

quick-set — 
'Tis  the  deputy's  twins — one  blonde,  one  brunette. 

The  mayor  and  clerk  just  now  sauntered  along. 
Like  beer-tun  with  crane  that  o'er  it  is  swung; 

How  the  brown  beauty  laughs,  as  she  tosses  her 

hair, 
"You'll  be  Madam   Crookback,   mind  that,  in  a 

year ! ' ' 

And  the  blonde  claps  her  hands  as  she,  laugh- 
ing, replies  : 

"And  you'll  have  old  Dumpy  as  your  wedded 
prize !" 

I  thought,  as  I  peeped  through  the  hedge  at  the 

pair, 
Which  most    I   would    like  to   be — clerk  or  the 

mayor. 


130 


Groth. 


Nich  en  Lut  war  liort  as  dat  Haf  iiii  de  Floth,  Dihnarsch 

Un  de  Prester  leet  se  swern,  ^"^  Klaus 

Oppe  Knee  dar  leeg  dat  Ditmarscher  Volk 
Un  de  Acht  un  veertig  Herrn. 

Noch  schint  de  Heben  der  blau  hendal 
Un  gron  dat  Holt  un  de  Eer : 
De  Ditmarschen  fallt  de  Thran  int  Gras, 
Un  de  Friheit  seht  se  ni  mehr ! 


VULLMACHT    SIN    TWESCHENS. 

Wat  gluddert  in  Blomhof  un  lacht  achtern  Tun  ? 
De  Vullmacht  sin  Tweschens,  de  Witt  un  de  Brun. 

De  Vagt  un  de  Schriwer  gungn  eben  verbi, 
Weer  jiis  as  en  Beertiinn  mit  Haenken  derbi. 

Wa  lach  do  de  Brune  un  schiittel  de  Haar  : 
Du  kriggst  mul   de  Krumme,  schast  sehn,  noch 
vuntjahr ! 

Wa  lach  doch  de  Witte  un  klapp  inne  Hann' : 
Du  kriggst  mal  de  Dicke,  de  Dicke  ton  Mann ! — 

Ik  kik  daer  de  Paten  un  heff  mi  bedacht : 

Wat  much  ik  denn,  Schriwer  wen — oder  de  Vagt? 


FRITZ  REUTER'S 
LIFE  AND  WORKS. 

"Qui  vir,  et  dialectum  patriam  et  sensus  animi 
patrios  callet;  queni  eundem  Gratice  ipsae  Musis 
conjunctas  jocis  miscere  seria  docuerunt;  cujus 
scriptoris  quum  alia  opera  turn  etiam  librum 
aureolum  huncce  Olle  Camellen,  Germania 
laudat  universa." 

FRIENDLY  Kiel  critic  of 
my  first  article  (upon  Groth, 
Ditmarsch,  and  Plattdeutsch) 
seems  to  think  that  there  is 
a  thread  of  half-apology  run- 
ning through  it  in  behalf  of  the  Low  German, 
and  ascribes  it,  in  a  charitable  spirit,  to  my 
wish  to  overcome  the  supercilious  "pride 
of  the  English  race"  toward  a  kindred  but 
humbler  tongue — a  poor  cousin,  as  it  were. 
It  may  be  that  there  was  such  a  tinge  un- 
consciously given  to  the  essay;  but  if  any 
prejudice  exists  in  the  American  mind  as 
to  Low  German  (a  premise  I  do  not  wish 
to  concede),  it  has  assuredly  sprung  from 
exotic  seeds  planted  there  by  fastidious  High 
Germans.  There  is  a  class  of  Germans  who, 
in  discussing   Plattdeutsch    with   Americans, 

133 


Fritz  leave  an  incorrect  impression  as  to  the  social 
life  and  ^i^^i^^  of  the  less  cultivated  tongue,  not  so 
Works.  much  in  the  facts  they  offer  as  in  the  im- 
pression left  to  be  derived  from  those  facts. 
There  is  still  another  class,  who  (not  being 
quite  at  ease  as  to  their  own  educational 
ground)  fancy  that  any  suspicion  of  the  platt 
in  their  language  would  be  a  social  blot — 
a  proof  of  vulgarity.  Of  this  order  was 
that  lady  introduced  in  a  modern  German 
novel,  who  assumed  to  be  an  oracle  in  cul- 
ture by  reason  of  being  the  daughter  of 
a  professor,  and  who  reproved  her  docile 
husband  for  saying  hippodrom,  instead  of 
hippotraum,  ' '  because  di-om  was  so  platt ! ' ' 
No  language  or  dialect  is  in  itself  mean; 
nor  can  any  dialect  beget  vulgarity;  on  the 
other  hand,  vulgarity  degrades  any  language 
it  employs,  no  matter  how  noble  it  may  have 
been  in  origin.  Tuscan  has,  ever  since 
Dante  and  Boccaccio,  been  the  cultivated 
language  of  Italy;  but  for  all  that,  the  proud 
Venetian  retained  his  own  soft  dialect.  It 
accompanied  him  everywhere;  even  in  his 
courts,  where  the  pleadings  were  entered  in 
Tuscan,  the  arguments  of  the  advocates  were 
in  Venetian;  and  it  proved  the  chief  feature 
of  as  bright  a  period  of  the  drama  as  Italy 
ever   saw,    when    Goldoni    wrote   down    his 

134 


plays  in  his  native  idiom.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, no  speech,  or  phase  of  speech, 
could  be  anything  but  dignified.  Broad 
Scotch  has  never  been  relegated  to  an  in- 
ferior social  position.  It  has  been  the  garb 
of  lyric  and  elegiac  poetry;  it  has  been  the 
solvent  for  wit  in  the  drawing-room;  it  has 
intensified  the  humorous  sally  of  the  advo- 
cate; and  has  furnished  its  harmony  to  the 
lecture-room  of  the  professor.  So  much  for 
the  dignity  of  dialect,  provided,  of  course, 
we  take  dialect  in  its  scientific  and  good 
sense,  and  do  not  confound  it  with  disinte- 
grating language.  A  bronze  medal  may  not 
be  of  greater  intrinsic  bullion  value  than 
a  debased  coin;  but,  in  that  it  is  genuine, 
it  is  meritorious,  which  the  greasy  coin  is 
not.  Chinook  is  a  tatter  fit  only  for  the 
worst  days  of  Babel;  Pigeon-English  is  dis- 
gusting—  Confucius  himself  would  be  con- 
temptible if  he  attempted  to  converse  in 
it.  If  ever  a  Chinese  admiral  blockades  our 
harbor,  and  dictates  a  surrender  in  Pigeon- 
English,  (and  who  can  say  what  is  in  store 
for  us?)  he  would  probably  be  listened  to 
with  inextinguishable  laughter. 

Slang  is  distorted  metaphor  and  corrupt 
speech  at  the  same  time,  both  of  which  vices, 
like  a  pair  of  bow  legs,  give  it  a  harlequin, 

135 


Fritz 
Renter's 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz  pigeon-toed  air.  Bret  Harte's  "Heathen 
Life  and  Chinee"  is  simply  a  well-arranged  chain  of 
Works.  slang;  and  he  ought  to  have  been  ashamed 
to  offer  it  in  pawn  for  fame,  when  he  had  far 
better  stuff  in  his  scrip  at  the  time.  James 
Russell  Lowell's  "  Biglow  Papers"  may  be 
considered  partly  in  the  light  of  dialect, 
partly  as  an  attempt  to  represent  a  peculiar 
local  pronunciation,  and  partly  as  the  angu- 
lar wit  of  one  class  of  American  society — 
not  precisely  slang,  and  yet  which  looks 
at  times  very  like  the  boldest  order  of 
slang.  Artemus  Ward  wrote  the  patois  of 
the  billiard-room  and  country  hotel  —  an 
argot  that  would,  and  did,  enable  him  to 
discuss  the  broadest  questions  of  philosophy, 
politics,  and  art  with  the  average  crowd  for 
which  one  has  the  bar-keeper  ' '  set  up  the 
drinks." 

But  I  must  return  to  my  subject,  having 
announced  that  my  platform  (a  vile  Ameri- 
canism, i}tei7i  kicler  Fre^ind')  contains  a  plank 
for  the  due  support  of  the  social  and  literary 
dignity  of  all  twigs  of  the  great  Teutonic  or 
Gothic  branch  of  articulate  speech,  whether 
written  or  unwritten.  And,  in  one  respect 
at  least,  I  would  suggest  an  advantage  which 
the  German  has  over  the  English  limb  of  the 
Teutonic   tree  :    when    High    German  wears 

136 


out  in  spots,  as  all  languages  are  fated  to  Fritz 
do  by  constant  use,  the  High  German  has  ^^y-^  ^„^ 
a  choice  lot  of  archaic  material  at  hand,  in  Works. 
the  shape  of  Plattdeutsch,  with  which  he 
can  mend  his  tongue — expressions,  phrases, 
constructions  known  to  the  elder  Cethegi 
of  the  race,  which  can  be  used  without 
violence  to  taste.  But  when  our  English 
tongue  rusts  out,  we  have  nothing  where- 
with to  patch  it,  except  chunks  of  slang,  or 
euphuistic  soft-solder  imported  from  Gaul. 
It  is  interesting  to  notice  the  dainty  efforts 
of  the  Laureate,  now  and  then,  to  substitute 
an  ancient  word  in  lieu  of  a  trite ,  modern 
phrase,  like  old  tiles  set  in  a  new  chimney- 
piece;  but  it  is  evidence  that  the  language  is 
disintegrating. 

In  the  former  article  I  undertook  to  treat 
of  thought  worked  into  a  quaint  and  novel 
language,  under  peaceful  auspices,  in  "a 
land  where  all  things  always  seemed  the 
same,"  and  where  the  poet  would  appear 
to  have  drawn  the  georgic  tranquillity  into 
his  blood,  and  to  have  reinfused  it  into  his 
verse  and  prose — a  sort  of  Teutonic  Theoc- 
ritus, in  fact. 

Now,  I  must  speak  of  a  widely  different 
character,  laboring,  if  not  in  the  same  field, 
137 


Fritz  at  least  just  over  the  hedge,  and  obtaining 
Life  and  ^  different  success,  although  reaching  it  by 
Works.       the  same  paths. 

Groth's  Qicickborn  is  a  felicitous  chain  of 
lyrics;  and  the  work  may  fairly  be  placed  as 
the  first  serious  employment  of  the  dialect  in 
which  it  was  composed  for  two  centuries,  if 
we  leave  out  of  consideration  the  dilettant 
efforts  of  Voss  and  a  few  others,  who,  in 
times  past,  for  amusement,  noted  the  possi- 
ble capacity  of  the  common  tongue  for  liter- 
ary effort. 

Groth  has  written  prose  tales;  but  these 
efforts,  so  far  as  concerns  the  matter  of  them, 
might  as  well  have  been  idylls;  for  verse 
would  have  suited  eminently  their  pastoral 
character. 

On  the  other  hand,  Fritz  Reuter  first  ap- 
peared as  a  writer  of  verse.  But  though  his 
Lmischoi  71)1  Rimels  won  great  success,  and 
brought  him  a  degree  of  provincial  fume, 
I  consider  that  collection  as  no  evidence 
of  brilliancy  that  would  give  promise  of  his 
future  work.  It  was,  as  he  says,  an  "assem- 
bly of  street  urchins,"  amusing  from  their 
dirty  faces  and  mirthful  ways,  but  with  noth- 
ing to  indicate  what  they  would  be  when 
grown  to  manhood.  They  were  like  tavern 
signs,   on   which  a  great   painter   may  have 


labored  before  his  genius  had  been  hailed  by 
the  world  of  culture. 

And  although  Fritz  Reuter  wrote  poems, 
and  long  ones  too,  it  is  as  the  prose  sketch- 
writer  that  he  is  to  be  deemed  most  suc- 
cessful. This  is  not  to  disparage  his  poetic 
talent,  which  blossoms  out  of  everything  he 
said  or  wrote.  It  is  simply  an  attempt  to 
establish  an  approximative  standpoint  from 
which  to  consider  him  in  discussion.  If 
Burns  were  to  be  taken  as  a  Scotch  type  of 
Groth,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  might  bear  some 
resemblance  to  Reuter. 


Fritz 
Reuter 's 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz  Reuter  was  born  in  Stavenhagen, 
Mecklenburg-Schwerin,  November  7,  18 10. 
In  the  Rathhaus,  where  Fritz  first  saw  light, 
the  enthusiastic  burghers,  in  1873,  placed  a 
commemorative  tablet  to  his  honor,  having, 
in  1865,  already  planted  a  "Reuter  Oak." 

The  town  is  in  the  midst  of  a  flat  country, 
here  and  there  a  bit  of  rising  ground  called 
ostentatiously  a  mountain,  with  little  lakes  as 
resting-places  for  the  sluggish  streams.  The 
inhabitants,  both  gentle  and  simple,  have 
their  interests  mainly  centred  in  the  crops, 
wheat  being  the  staple — a  land  of  slow- 
moving,  reflective,  perhaps  a  little  sly,  peas- 
antry; men  loath  to  grasp  at  new  ideas,  with 
139 


Fritz  a  ponderously  careful  tread,  as  if  progress 
Life  and  ^^^^  being  made  over  wide  furrows,  with 
Works.       constant  danger  to  the  grain  below. 

Stavenhagen  {^plattd.  Stemhagen)  was  ruled 
in  those  days,  and  for  generations  thereafter 
(1805-45),  by  Fritz's  father,  as  Biirgermei- 
stcr  (a  sort  of  mayor,  with  certain  criminal 
and  other  conciliatory  jurisdiction).  Fritz's 
mother  was  one  of  those  typical,  patient  inva- 
lids, full  of  kindness  and  cultivation — a  queen 
faineante  in  her  household,  carrying  for 
sceptre  her  knitting-needles,  regarded  by  all, 
high  and  low,  with  affection  and  chivalrous 
courtesy^  elicited  by  her  helplessness  and 
bodily  suffering.  It  was  probably  to  her 
nature  that  Fritz  owed  his  literary  leanings, 
his  powers  of  humorous  observation,  and  his 
tact  and  gentle  charity  in  expression.  It 
certainly  was  not  from  his  father  that  he  drew 
any  of  these  gifts.  His  father  was  a  shrewd, 
common-sense  official,  full  of  plans  which  he 
carried  out  with  success,  bound  up  in  his 
daily  life  and  duties,  and  conscientious  in 
performance — a  man  of  stalwart  power  and 
passions,  filling  his  part  in  life  amply  and 
creditably. 

Fritz  has,  in  Ut  de  Franzosentid,  given 
us  a  vivid  picture  of  life  at  Stavenhagen  in 
his  infancy.     With  a  masterly  hand,  he  has 

140 


drawn  for  us  an  outline  of  the  Amtshaupt- 
mann  (Prefect  of  District)  Weber,  a  grand 
old  figure,  something  of  a  tyrant  in  his  way, 
looked  up  to  by  both  burgher  and  peasant, 
and  of  his  wife  a  worthy  counterpart.  Then 
there  is  an  "Uncle  Herse,"  who,  however, 
was  no  uncle  at  all,  but  who  had  that  make- 
up of  character  and  habits  which  brings  the 
child  inevitably  to  claim  some  irresponsible 
relationship  with  him — a  man  who  was  clever, 
who  knew  what  the  birds  said,  and  could 
answer  them — a  treasure  to  any  community 
of  children  anywhere.  Then  there  was  Fritz's 
mother's  sister,  "  Tante  Christiane " ;  there 
was  Mademoiselle  Westphalen;  there  was  the 
' '  Watchmaker  Droz, ' '  a  real  Frenchman  (aus 
Neufchdtel),  employed  to  teach  Fritz  a  proper 
accent. 

Fritz  did  not,  for  his  first  years,  attend  the 
public  school,  but  took  his  lessons  with  his 
sister  Lisette,  and  his  two  cousins,  Ernst 
and  August.  Finally  he  went  to  a  girls' 
school — "an  owl  among  the  crows."  Uncle 
Herse  taught  him  arithmetic  and  drawing; 
the  town  apothecary,  Latin  and  history;  his 
father,  geography;  and  so  his  training  went 
on,  in  a  straggling  way,  until  a  theological 
student  appeared  in  the  house  as  a  regular 
pedagogue.  When  Fritz  was  fifteen,  he  lost 
141 


Fritz 
Renter's 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz         his  mother  by  death,  and  at  about  the  same 

Life  and  ^^"^^  ^^^  placed  at  school  in  the  little  town  of 

Works.       Friedland,  Mecklenburg-Strelitz.      Of  his  life 

there  (it  lasted  three  years),  there  is  a  quaint 

picture  drawn  in  Ddrchlauchting . 

At  this  time  Fritz  had  thoughts  of  becom- 
ing a  painter;  his  more  prosaic  father  pre- 
ferred the  law.  Neither  was  right;  but  Fritz 
gave  to  art  a  better  chance  than  to  jurispru- 
dence. He  was  sent  to  the  gymnasium  at 
Parchim.  In  1831,  he  went  to  the  University 
at  Rostock,  "the  up-and-down  jump  for 
every  true  Mecklenburger,"  as  he  terms  it. 
In  half  a  year  he  left  Rostock  for  Jena,  and 
became  an  altogether  too  gay  member  of  the 
Burschenschaft  there.  It  was  here  that  he 
committed  the  offence  which  led  to  his  sub- 
sequent conviction  of  an  attempt  at  high 
treason,  sentence  to  death,  followed  by  com- 
mutation to  imprisonment  for  life,  then  soft- 
ened to  thirty  years,  and  finally  remitted, 
after  he  had  served  seven  years  of  misery, 
and  had  lost  the  flower  of  his  days  in  aimless 
trifling  within  prison-walls. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  the  young  man 
that  in  those  days  the  German  governments 
comprehended  so  little  the  radical  leaven 
which  must,  at  a  certain  age,  work  into  a 
ferment  in  the  veins  of  most  educated  youth. 

142 


Had  Fritz  played  the  same  class  of  political 
pranks  at  an  English  university,  perhaps  the 
college  dons  would  have  looked  after  him 
with  some  degree  of  nervousness,  and  would 
have  given  him  an  admonition  now  and  then; 
but  to  have  ranked  him  as  a  criminal  would 
have  been,  in  their  eyes,  downright  absurd- 
ity. In  an  American  college,  such  talk  or 
conduct  might  have  brought  a  jocular  criti- 
cism from  the  rhetorical  professor,  who,  with 
his  gibes,  would  have  patronized  the  sopho- 
.  moric  reformer  into  conservatism.  Dilettant 
radicalism  has  long  been  regarded  by  English 
and  American  professors  as  an  amiable  drone- 
bee  in  the  youthful  bonnet,  that  must  finish 
up  a  certain  amount  of  buzzing  before  it 
assumes  a  duly  conservative  torpidity,  or  is 
kicked  out  of  the  hive  altogether  by  ideas  oi 
a  honey-gathering  class. 

The  Germanic  authorities  in  those  days 
had,  however,  the  blood  of  Kotzebue  in  their 
eyes,  and  they  fancied  every  top-booted,  vel- 
vet-coated, be-ribboned  student  to  be  a  pos- 
sible Karl  Sand.  They  make  cabinet  min- 
isters out  of  such  stuff  nowadays.  Witness 
Baron  Haymerle. 

The  prominent  facts  of  Fritz's  trouble  are 
these  :  There  was  found  to  be  a  student  con- 
spiracy ramifying  all  the  universities.  Some 
143 


Fritz 
R  enter '  s 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz  silly  fellows  did  actually  commit  an  overt 
Life  and  ^'^^^  ^^^  sedition  at  Frankfurt.  Fritz  was 
Works.  captured  in  Berlin  (he  had  left  Jena,  and  had 
gone  thither  to  study  law),  was  tried,  and 
commenced  his  seven  years'  life  in  the  differ- 
ent military  prisons  (Festungen)  to  which  he 
was  relegated,  finally  winding  up,  as  an  act 
of  grace,  at  Domitz,  under  his  own  Grand 
Duke;  and  at  last,  being  freed  altogether,  on 
the  death  of  the  King  of  Prussia — a  broken 
young  man,  with  a  passion  for  strong  drink 
(Trunksucht),  that  never  again  entirely  for- 
sook him,  but  was  the  vampire  of  his  life  and 
powers. 

In  1840,  at  the  instance  of  his  father,  he 
went  to  Heidelberg  to  study  jurisprudence; 
but,  owing  to  his  unhappy  tendency  to  alco- 
holism, he  was  recalled,  and  started  afresh 
on  a  new  career  as  a  farmer.  Herein  he 
might  have  succeeded  but  for  his  disease. 
At  this  time  he  met  his  future  wife,  Luise 
Kuntze.  In  1844  he  completed  his  educa- 
tion as  a  farmer;  but  his  Stromtid  was  still 
a  failure,  for  the  old  reason  ;  and  in  1845 
his  father  died,  having  finally  despaired  of 
his  son's  reform,  and  making  in  his  will  a 
guarded  testamentary  trust,  by  the  terms  of 
which  Fritz  was  not  to  touch  his  share  of  the 
succession  until  he  had  shown  signs  of  free- 

144 


dom  from  the  drink  trouble  for  a  term  of 
years.  Fritz  never  abstained  for  the  period, 
and  was  never  let  into  the  possession  of  the 
fund. 

He  had  one  good  friend,  however,  who 
held  him  patiently  up  during  this  period  of 
his  life,  one  Fritz  Peters,  to  whose  sympathy 
and  care  he  probably  owed  his  life,  and  to 
whom  the  public  possibly  owe  his  works. 
At  this  time  he  commenced  to  write — trifles, 
maybe,  but  it  was  a  training  for  success. 

In  those  days  broke  out  the  1848  excite- 
ment. Of  course  the  old  Freiheit  must  be- 
gan to  effervesce  in  the  veins  of  Renter,  and 
he  attempted  what  we  Americans  would  call 
"going  into  politics."  He  was  a  deputy  at 
the  Town's  Diet  at  Giistrow,  and  then  a  dele- 
gate to  the  Assembly  for  both  Mecklenburgs; 
but  the  movement  never  came  to  anything, 
and  indeed,  that  sort  of  business  was  not  in 
Renter's  vein,  as  an  incident  would  seem  to 
show.  He  was  acting  as  president  of  a  Re- 
form League  established  at  Stavenhagen.  Of 
course  the  members  had  an  agricultural  slow- 
ness of  comprehension.  This  was  too  much 
for  the  patience  of  so  nervous  a  politician  as 
Fritz,  and  amid  the  regrets  of  the  assembly, 
he  laid  down  the  gavel.  He  was  pressed  to 
give  his  reasons  for  declining  the  office.  The 
145 


Fritz 
Ji  enter's 
Life  a7id 
Works. 


Fritz  good-natured  burghers  desired,  if  possible,  to 
Life  and  conform  to  his  views,  and  retain  him.  But 
Works.  Fritz  made  for  the  door,  and  reaching  it, 
shouted,  ' '  You  wish  to  know  why  I  leave  ? ' ' 
There  was  a  general  stillness  of  expectation. 
"Ji  sid  mi  all  tau  dumm,  ji  Schapskopp " 
(you  are  all  too  stupid  for  me,  you  sheep- 
heads),  and  vanished.  Such  a  man  was  not 
stuff  for  a  popular  orator;  at  least,  he  would 
make  small  headway  here  in  a  Sand-lot  dem- 
onstration. 

At  this  time  he  started  in  vocation  as  a 
private  teacher.  Still  the  old  trouble.  His 
bride  then  married  him,  in  hopes  to  reform 
him,  and  in  1851  they  commenced  life  to- 
gether at  Treptow.  The  wife  seems  to  have 
been  a  real  helpmate  and  sympathizer.  She 
never  was  able  to  say  that  she  had  driven  off 
the  arch-enemy,  but  her  presence  probably 
kept  the  demon  at  bay  most  of  the  time. 

Now  it  was  that  the  poor  fellow  commenced 
his  work  as  an  author;  and  to  do  so  in  the 
projected  manner,  it  became  almost  necessary 
for  him  to  relearn  his  Plattdeutsch.  The  tri- 
fles he  had  hitherto  produced,  of  a  doubtful 
merit  and  merely  local  interest,  were  in  High 
German.  Klaus  Groth's  Ouickborn  had  but 
just  appeared,  and  it  struck  the  needy  peda- 
gogue that  something  of  a  similar  character 

146 


in  the  Mecklenburg  dialect  would  be  popular, 
at  least  within  the  boundaries  of  the  duchies. 
In  that  country  there  is  a  great  degree  of 
popularity  given  to  what  we  might  call 
"yarns,"  for  the  want  of  a  better  word 
(^Geschichte).  Fritz  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
versifying  these,  and  having  collected  a 
quantity,  launched  out  with  great  rashness 
in  business,  as  both  publisher  and  author. 
These  first  endeavors  he  styled  L'duschen  un 
Rimels — "  a  mob  of  little  street  urchins,  who, 
in  ruddy  health,  tumble  over  one  another, 
unrestrained  as  to  aesthetic  poses — jolly  faces, 
laughing  out  from  under  tow  locks,  and 
finding,  at  times,  their  fun  in  the  world's 
folly."  The  success  of  this  venture  was 
wonderful.  The  edition,  consisting  of  twelve 
hundred  copies,  was  sold  oh'  briskly;  and 
though  his  reputation  did  not  yet  pass  be- 
yond his  native  Plattdeutsch  land,  yet  his 
success  as  an  author  was  established.  This 
work  has  a  quaint  dedication  to  his  old,  well- 
tried  friend,  Fritz  Peters. 

De  Reis'  nah  Belligen  followed — a  story, 
in  verse,  of  the  adventures  of  Vadder  Witt 
and  Vadder  Swart,  two  respectable  peasants, 
who  with  their  sons,  Corl  and  Fritz,  project 
and  partially  make  a  journey  to  Belgium, 
for  purposes  of  culture  and  travelled  experi- 
147 


Fritz 
Renter'' s 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz  ence.  The  excursion  is  one  of  ludicrous 
life  and  JT^isfortune,  winding  up  in  the  poUce  station 
Works.  in  Berhn,  whence  the  party  return  home,  to 
be  tongue-castigated  by  their  less  adventur- 
ous and  more  conservative  wives.  There  is 
the  thread  of  a  love  story,  with  Fritz  and 
the  sexton's  daughter  for  hero  and  heroine, 
which  terminates  happily  on  the  arrival  home 
of  the  travelled  party. 

At  about  this  time  (1855)  our  author  be- 
gan the  publication  of  a  weekly  journal, 
Unterhaltu7igsblatt  fi'ir  beide  Mecklenburg 
und  Pominern.  It  was  in  this  that  he  first 
introduced  to  his  readers  his  most  distinct 
and  remarkable  character,  the  jovial  "  z'wz- 
7neritirter  Entspekter  Brdsig,^'  who  wrote 
characteristic  letters  to  the  journal  about 
matters  and  things  of  interest  to  himself 
and  the  public.  To  any  admirer  of  Dick- 
ens, who  has  not  also  read  Reuter,  it  would 
be  a  pleasure  worth  a  whole  philological 
journey  through  High  German,  Low  Ger- 
man, and  Messingsch,  to  shake  hands  with 
the  Inspector.  It  is  impossible  to  give  in 
any  language  but  his  the  cream  of  his  utter- 
ances. His  style  is  his  own.  However,  the 
character  was,  at  this  period,  only  outlined, 
and  it  was  not  until  some  time  later  that 
Briisig  became  an  active  mover  in  Renter's 


fiction.      On  the   German  stage  he  became,     Fritz 
eventually,  a  leading  character — as  marked,     zjfeand 
as  definite,  as  our  American  "Joshua  Whit-     Works. 
comb. ' ' 

The  journal  lived  but  a  year.  The  pub- 
lisher left  his  affairs  in  disorder,  and  de- 
camped for  America.  Fritz  at  this  time  took 
up  his  residence  in  New  Brandenburg. 

His  next  production  was  a  tragic  sort  of 
idyll,  KeiJi  Hilsing  (No  Housing — Anglice, 
no  right  of  settlement  in  the  parish).  It 
was,  in  his  own  estimation,  his  chief  work. 
A  young  peasant,  desirous  of  marrying  the 
girl  whom  he  loves,  is  thwarted  in  procuring 
the  legal  solemnization  of  the  marriage,  for 
the  reason  that  he  is  unable  to  furnish  the 
necessary  evidence  that  they  will  not  become 
a  charge  on  the  public;  it  being  necessary, 
under  the  local  laws,  that  the  pair  should 
have  a  legal  abode,  and  he  employment.  He 
is  prevented  from  this  by  the  machinations 
of  the  young  Squire,  who  has  cast  covetous 
eyes  on  the  poor  girl.  The  impatient  desires 
of  the  peasant  lovers  getting  the  better  of 
their  prudence,  the  time  approaches  when 
their  indiscretion  becomes  known.  The  young 
aristocrat  and  the  peasant  have  a  dispute ; 
the  peasant  strikes  the  gentleman  dead,  and 
disappears  as  an  outlaw;  the  young  mother 
149 


Fritz  becomes  an  outcast,  and  goes  crazy,  and  her 
Life  mid  i^^^^it  boy,  at  her  death,  falls  to  the  protec- 
Works.  tion  of  the  old  servant,  once  the  friend  of  the 
father.  The  father  returns  from  America, 
and  hears  the  story  of  his  bride's  death,  and 
takes  the  child  with  him  to  his  new  home. 
The  moral  of  the  tale  is  the  working  of  a 
quasi  system  of  villeinage,  which  takes  from 
the  serf  his  freedom  while  he  is  practically  at 
least  adscriphis  glebce.  While  it  is  a  possible, 
yet  it  can  hardly  be  a  typical,  state  of  affairs, 
even  in  Mecklenburg. 

Ut  de  Franzosentid  next  followed.  This  is 
in  prose;  and  for  freshness  and  delicacy  of 
character-drawing  there  can  be  nothing  su- 
perior in  sketch-writing.  Each  person  stands 
out  as  plain  as  if  morally  photographed,  and 
there  is  variety  enough,  there  are  people 
enough  and  material  enough,  to  furnish  up  a 
three-volume  novel. 

There  are  no  finer  gentlemen  in  all  Thack- 
eray than  Amtshauptmann  Weber  and  Colo- 
nel von  Toll.  Uncle  Herse  would  add  a 
charm  to  Pickwick,  if  he  only  could  be  post- 
humously inserted,  as  binders  sometimes  in- 
sert a  rare  plate  in  a  work  for  which  it  was 
not  originally  meant. 

Mademoiselle  Westphalen  is  as  sweet  a 
woman  as  ever  was;  and  the  peasant  char- 

150 


acters,  headed  by  the  miller,  the  rear  brought 
up  by  the  "  Uhrmacher  Droz,"  in  his  French 
regimentals,  are  wonderful  In  their  way.  The 
miller's  daughter  is  a  gem.  In  short,  Fritz 
has  cast  a  halo  about  the  picture  of  his  child- 
hood; and  in  the  centre  of  it  he  has  placed 
his  sick  mother,  knitting  away,  and  receiving 
the  chivalrous  homage  of  the  old  Amtshaupt- 
mann. 

Hanne  N'ute  (short  for  Master  Johann 
Snut),  or  de  liltte  Piidel,  is  "'w<?  Vagel  un 
Minschengeschicht,'"  or  tale  of  men  and  birds, 
which,  if  properly  read  to  children,  with  be- 
coming attention  to  dramatic  recitation  and 
onomatopy,  in  giving  the  human  dialogue 
and  the  bird  business,  would  prove  a  genuine 
delight  to  any  healthy  crowd  of  young  per- 
sons we  know — provided,  of  course,  they 
knew  the  tongue. 

The  "  Little  Poodle  "  (so  called  on  account 
of  her  curly  head)  is  a  good  little  child  of  a 
poverty-stricken  family,  the  station  in  life  of 
which  puts  her  socially  beneath  Hanne,  the 
son  of  the  village  smith.  She  is  out  with  the 
children,  tending  the  geese,  when  the  old  gray 
gander  takes  it  into  his  head  to  bite  the 
baker,  a  well-to-do  but  bad  man.  The  surly 
baker,  indignant  at  the  laughter  excited,  visits 
his  wrath  upon  the  innocent  Little  Poodle, 
151 


Fritz 
Renter's 
Life  and 
Works. 


Fritz  when  Hanne  appears  as  her  defender,  and 
Life  and  ii^tervenes  with  a  blow  to  the  discomfited 
Works.  baker.  Hanne  "gets  it,"  on  his  return  home, 
for  his  heroism.  The  course  of  true  love  is 
broken  by  the  disparity  of  social  status,  and 
by  Hanne' s  departure  on  his  Wandering  Year 
as  apprentice. 

He  takes  leave  of  his  friends,  and  among 
them,  of  the  old  rector,  with  whom  he  has 
a  glass  of  wine,  and  who  breaks  into  a 
spasm  of  enthusiasm  over  his  own  student 
life  at  Jena,  to  the  great  terror  of  his  wife, 
who  fears  he  may  have  taken  a  drop  too 
much. 

Hanne  sets  out.  The  birds  convene;  the 
duties  are  assigned  as  may  best  befit  the 
different  feathered  families;  and  under  the 
leadership  of  the  solemn  Adebor  (stork),  a 
general  campaign  of  observation  is  entered 
upon  for  the  protection  of  the  Little  Poodle's 
love  interests.  Hanne  is  exposed  to  various 
trials.  Among  his  experiences,  he  is  employed 
by  a  buxom  young  widow,  who  tempts  him 
to  stop  and  take  up  the  abandoned  sledge  of 
her  good  man.  She  attacks  him,  after  the 
manner  of  her  sex,  with  good  eatables;  she 
pours  out  for  him  the  most  enticing  cups 
of  chocolate;  she  potters  about  him  as  he 
drinks  it. 

152 


"  Un  leggt  vor  idel  Trurigkeit 

Sick  sacht  in  Hannern  sinen  Arm 

Un  de  oil  Jung' ;  de  trost't  un  ei't 
Un  dorbi   ward  em  gor  tau  warm — 

'T  is  maglich  von  de  Schockelor." 

(And  leans,  her  sorrow  moving  her, 
So  gently  back  on  Hanne's  arm  : 

And  he — he  plays  the  comforter, 

And  grows,  unwitting,  all  too  warm — 

Quite  likely  'twas  the  chocolate.) 

But  he  is  reminded  by  a  sudden  strain  of  the 
nightingale,  who  is  in  the  bird  conspiracy  in 
favor  of  the  Poodle,  of  his  sweetheart  at 
home,  and  forthwith  he  starts  up,  tells  the 
widow  the  truth,  and  quits  her  with  just  as 
little  resentment  in  her  heart  as  it  is  possible 
for  a  true  woman  to  have  under  the  circum- 
stances. He  reaches  the  Rhine,  and  there 
he  comes  to  grief.  He  is  arrested  for  the 
murder  of  a  poor  Jew  pedler,  on  the  circum- 
stance that  some  of  the  Jew's  property  is 
found  on  him.  How  the  birds  turn  in  and 
help  him;  how  the  widow  befriends  him;  how 
the  rich  baker  is  found  to  be  the  murderer; 
and  how  Hanne  and  the  Poodle  become 
united,  and  how  the  stately  Adebor  looks 
down  the  chimney  of  the  newly  married  pair, 


Fritz 
Renter^  s 
Life  and 
Works. 


'  Dunn  seggt  hei :    '  So  is  dit 
Adjiis!    Wenn't  Friihjohr  wedder  kihrt 


153 


Fritz  Denn  bring'  ich  Jug  wat  mit. 

Renter's  Paggt  up!     Dat  sail  v5r  Allen 

Works  Grossmutting  Snutsch  gefallen,'  " 

— it  being  the  custom  in  North  Germany  (as 
also  detailed  by  Hans  Andersen)  for  the 
storks  to  supply  any  call  for  babies,  they,  as 
importers,  having  a  "corner"   in  that  trade. 

He  also  wrote  at  this  period  (1858-63) 
Ut  viine  Festimgstid.  This  pathetic  comic 
history  of  his  prison  life  shows  the  man  in  a 
charming  light.  There  is  no  bitterness  in  it 
— nothing  but  gentleness  and  humor.  The 
miHtary  officers  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact are  all  treated  with  fairness.  There  is 
no  petty  grumbling;  and  while  the  account 
of  the  manly  Colonel,  a  compatriot  who  was 
so  thoughtful  of  the  poor  boy's  situation,  as 
related  in  the  first  part  of  his  story,  has 
something  tragic  in  it,  the  scene  of  the  kind, 
superannuated  old  commandant  in  charge  of 
Domitz,  and  his  lovely  family,  would  strike 
any  one  as  the  perfection  of  homely  humor. 
It  is  quite  likely  that  perhaps  the  military 
officers  of  that  day  were  not  as  apprehensive 
of  political  danger  as  the  civilians,  and  were, 
therefore,  possibly  less  given  to  cruelty  in 
the  line  of  their  duty. 

The  Olle  Ca^nellen  series  is  probably  the 
most  pretentious  of  all  Fritz  Reuter's  pro- 

154 


ductions;  and  whatever  criticisms  might  be 
thrown  out  as  to  the  ' '  sketchiness  ' '  of  the 
stories,  they  are  no  weaker  in  that  respect 
than  the  corresponding  period  in  the  labors 
of  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  It  is  on  a  plane 
with  these  two  authors  that  we  would  place 
Fritz.  His  career  did  not  extend  as  far, 
but  his  efforts  are  worthy  the  same  order 
of  praise.  Ut  mine  Stromtid  has  in  it  the 
germ  of  a  new  "Vicar  of  Wakefield."  There 
is  purity  of  delineation  in  every  character. 
Dickens  could  never  draw  a  gentleman  well; 
Thackeray  found  it  hard  to  color  up  his  lady 
portraitures  with  proper  intensity;  but  poor 
Fritz  had  a  tact  in  both  lines,  which,  if  de- 
veloped, would  have  made  his  books  some- 
thing wonderful. 

After  reading  Olle  Camellen,  one  cannot 
but  feel  that  in  those  little  villages  of  Meck- 
lenburg there  are  people  the  equal  of  any 
Scotch  Covenanter  or  New  England  Puri- 
tan for  rabid  devotion  to  principle,  and  that 
throughout  the  wheat-fields,  and  along  the 
little  ponds  they  call  lakes,  there  is  enough 
kindness  of  heart  and  delicacy  of  feeling  to 
civilize  all  Russia  and  Turkey,  if  it  could 
only  be  distilled  into  them.  Germany  will 
never  drop  to  pieces  as  long  as  there  are 
Havermanns  and  his  kind  to  bind  the  sheaves 


Fritz 
Renter's 
Life  and 
Works. 


155 


Fritz  together.  A  country  that  has  so  much  force 
Life  and  ^^  character,  moraUty,  and  shrewdness,  ly- 
Works.  ing,  as  it  were,  fallow  in  every  farm  and 
village,  cannot  be  wondered  at  that  it  flings 
into  fame  in  each  generation  its  full  measure 
of  great  men,  and  that  when  its  enemies 
commence  to  swarm,  it  finds  a  hero  in  every 
flaxen  poll  summoned  from  the  plough  or  the 
stable. 

As  long  as  the  Plattdeutsch  oak  flourishes, 
and  the  Plattdeutsch  speech  is  uttered,  so 
long  will  there  be  a  German  empire  and  a 
German  voice  in  the  councils  of  worldly  gov- 
ernment. Fritz  Renter  lived  to  see  his  writ- 
ings eagerly  read  from  one  end  of  Germany 
to  the  other.  He  lived  to  enjoy  the  honors 
of  aristocratic  governments,  without  yielding 
a  jot  of  his  independence;  to  find  his  boyish 
vagary  of  a  united  Germany  a  reality,  and  to 
see  the  colors,  for  the  wearing  of  which  he 
took  such  severe  punishment  in  his  youth, 
the  emblem  of  German  victory.  He  lived 
to  receive  the  favor  and  encomium  of  the 
great  German  Chancellor,  whose  wit  and 
humor,  and  whose  appreciation  of  wit  and 
humor  and  their  attendant  pathos,  are  said  to 
be  as  profound  as  his  statesmanship.  When 
the  Franco- Prussian  war  broke  out,  Renter 
was  a  practical  patriot  to  the  marrow,  albeit 

156 


there  is  a  tenderness  in  the  little  lyrics  which  Fritz 
he  then  wrote  which  shows  how  deeply  he  jjfg^and 
appreciated  the  private  woes  that  find  their  Works. 
hot-bed  growth  on  the  field  of  battle.  In 
the  latter  years  of  his  life,  however,  his  mal- 
ady crowded  more  persistently  upon  him. 
His  later  volumes,  while  marked  at  times 
with  flashes  of  the  fire  that  makes  his  writ- 
ings so  charming,  still  show  that  the  foul 
fiend  was  at  his  elbow  more  frequently  than 
ever.  The  ' '  Journey  to  Constantinople ' '  is 
a  bit  of  humorous  romance,  combining  his 
own  souvenirs  of  the  tour  made  by  him  in 
1864  with  the  comic  adventures  of  two  rival 
Mecklenburg  families,  who  are  supposed  to 
make  the  excursion.  It  is  only  a  half  suc- 
cess, though  in  it  there  are  still  traces  of 
the  old  spirit.  Ddrchldiichting  (His  Little 
Serene  Highness)  also  appeared  at  about 
this  time. 

In  1874  he  died,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a 
p'ersonal  and  literary  popularity  which  only 
genius  and  national  sympathy  could  explain. 
He  had  acquired  a  moderate  fortune  by  his 
works,  and  had  been  settled  for  some  years 
before  his  death  at  Eisenach.  The  disease 
which  ended  his  life  was  some  affection  of  the 
heart;  but  his  morbid  passion  for  alcohol  was 
probably  the  remote  cause. 
157 


Fritz  I    have   not   been    able,    in    the   foreefoinpf 

Reuter'' s       •  •  .  o       & 

Life  and  slight  biography,  and  in  the  one  of  Groth, 

Works.  to  give  a  clear  outline  of  the  Groth  and  Reu- 
ter influence  upon  German  social  literature. 
The  limits  of  a  magazine  article  have  already- 
been  too  far  trespassed  upon.  Nor  have  I,  in 
either  of  the  two  Plattdeutsch  essays,  paid 
such  regard  to  the  bibliography  of  the  two 
authors  as,  in  these  days  of  exact  informa- 
tion, befits  a  review  in  any  branch  of  litera- 
ture. I  must,  however,  refer  the  reader  to 
Adolph  Wilbrandt's  biography  of  Reuter, 
to  which  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  the  facts 
of  Renter's  life.  If  one  were  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  the  Plattdeutsch  reading  clubs  and 
social  organizations  that  have  sprung  into 
existence  in  the  last  twenty  years,  it  would 
be  almost  a  literary  history  of  North  Ger- 
many. No  such  enthusiasm  for  any  given 
branch  of  literature  has  been  stirred  since 
the  days  when  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  and 
their  contemporaries  labored  for  the  spread 
of  classical  learning. 

I  must  close  this  article,  however,  by  say- 
ing, that  if  it  seems  to  an  English  reader 
bold  and  unwarrantable  in  its  enthusiasm,  it 
is  because  I  cannot  bring  Reuter  out  of  the 
field  in  which  he  has  flourished,  any  more 
than  I  could  transplant  to  California  the  oak 

158 


which  flourishes  in  his  honor  at  Stavenhagen,     Fritz 
One  can  bring   across  the  ocean  the   hard,     y^y^  ^„^ 
impenetrable  pillars   of  Egypt;  but  the  oak-    Works. 
tree  drops  his  leaves,  and  seems,  after  trans- 
portation, to  be  nothing  but  firewood. 


159 


SELECTION   FROM  "HANNE   NUTE." 


THE   PLATTDEUTSCH   OAK. 

I  know  of  an  oak  by  the  shore  of  the  sea; 

Through  his  boughs  the  north  winds  make  moan; 
High  tosseth  his  mighty  crown,  proudly  and  free, 
The  growth  of  full  thousand  years  gone. 
No  human  hand 
His  glories  planned; 
He  stretcheth  from  Pommern  to  Netherland. 

I  know  an  oak-tree,  all  gnarly  and  scarred, 

Whose  roots  bill  or  axe  never  harmed; 
His  bark  is  so  rough  and  his  timber  so  hard, 
As  though  by  some  ban  he  were  charmed. 
But  naught  recks  he; 
A  grand  old  tree 
For  another  full  thousand  years  he'll  be. 

The  monarch,  and  with  him  his  stately  dame 

And  his  daughter,  walk  on  the  strand; 
"  This  oak,  how  mighty  of  girth  and  frame, 
With  branches  that  shadow  the  land  ! 
Whose  watch  and  ward 
Hath  so  kept  guard, 
That  his  verdure  thus  gayly  flaunts  heavenward?  " 

As  the  King  now  seeketh  an  answer  there, 

Before  him  a  working  lad  stands  : 
"Oh,  Sire,  the  tree  hatli  had  little  care 

At  yours,  or  the  Queen's,  or  my  Princess'  hands: 

1 60 


SELECTION    FROM  "HANNE  NUTE. 


DE    EIKBOM. 

Ik  weit  einen  Eikbom,  de  steiht  an  de  See, 

De  Nurdstorm,  de  brus't  in  sin  Knast, 
Stolz  reckt  hei  de  machtige  Kron  in  de  Hob ; 
So  is  dat  all  dusend  Johr  west; 
Kein  Minschenhand, 
De  hett  em  plant't; 
Hei  reckt  sik  von  Pommern  bet  Nedderland. 

Ik  weit  einen  Eikbom  vull  Knorrn  un  vull  Knast, 

Up  den'n  fott  kein  Bil  nich  un  Aext. 
Sin  Bork  is  so  rug  un  sin  Holt  is  so  fast. 
As  wir  hei  mal  bannt  un  behext. 
Nicks  hett  em  dahn; 
Hei  ward  noch  stahn; 
Wenn  wedder  mal  dusend  von  Johren  vergahn. 

Un  de  Konig  un  sine  Fru  Konigin 

Un  sin  Dochter,  de  gahn  an  den  Strand  : 
"Wat  deiht  dat  for'n  machtigen  Eikbom  sin, 
De  sin  Telgen  reckt  awer  dat  Land  ? 
Wer  hett  em  plegt, 
Wer  hett  em  hegt, 
Dat  hei  sine  Blader  so  lustig  rogt?" 

Un  as  nu  de  Konig  so  Antwurt  begehrt, 

Trett  vor  em  en  junge  Gesell : 
"  Herr  Konig,  Ji  hewwt  Jug  jo  siis  nich  d'riim  schert, 

Jug  Fru  nich  un  Juge  Mamsell  ! 
i6i 


Fritz  No  gentle  folk 

Renter's  E'er  watched  the  oak, 

L.ye  an      y^  guard  it  as  sapling  from  harmful  stroke. 


Works. 


"And  now,  the  lusty  old  giant  up-towers; 

We  Commons  have  tended  him  long; 

The  oak-tree,  my  Liege,  the  oak-tree  is  ours, 

Of  true  Plattdeutsch  nature  and  tongue  : 

No  courtly  wile 

Hath  grafted  guile 

On  a  growth  ne'er  fostered  by  royal  smile." 

Straightway  the  King's   daughter  gives   him  her 
hand : 
"  God  bless  thee,  my  lad,  for  thy  word. 
The  storm-blast  may  roar  through  our  German  land, 
I  know  who  can  refuge  afford. 
Who,  bold  and  free, 
Hold  Liberty- 
Such  hearts,  in  need,  must  loyal  be." 


162 


Kein  vornehm  Liid',  Fritz 

De  hadden  Tid,  Renter's 

Tau  seihn,  ob  den  Bom  ok  sin  Recht  geschuht.  if/f,,'^"'^ 


Works. 


"Un  doch  griiunt  so  lustig  de  Eikbom  up  Stun'ns, 

Wi  Arbeitsliid'  hewwen  em  wohrt; 

De  Eikbom,  Herr  Konig,  de  Eikbom  is  uns', 

Uns'  plattdiitsche  Sprak  is't  un  Ort. 

Kein  vornehm  Kunst 

Hett  s'  uns  verhunzt, 

Fri  wiissen  s'  tau  Hocliten  ahn  Konigsgunst." 

Rasch  giwwt  em  den  Konig  sin  Dochter  de  Hand  : 

"  Gott  seg'n  Di,  Gesell,  for  Din  Red' ! 
Wenn  de  Storm  wind  einst  brus't  dorch  dat  diitsche 
Land, 
Denn  weit  ik  'ne  sakere  Stiid': 
Wer  eigen  Ort 
Fri  wiinn  un  woiirt, 
Bi  den'n  is  in  Noth  Ein  taum  besten  verwohrt." 


163 


BALLADS  AND  LYRICS. 

I  AS  it  ever  occurred  to  you 
what  a  divine  attribute  is  the 
human  voice?  I  am  not 
going  to  prose  to  you  about 
the  ingenious  anatomy  of  the 
larynx,  or  to  explain  acoustics,  or  to  weary 
you  with  physical  science  in  any  shape. 
There  are  a  number  of  kind-hearted,  intelli- 
gent gentlemen  down  town — gentlemen  who 
gingerly  feel  your  pulse,  and  who  are  ten- 
derly curious  about  the  state  of  your  tongue, 
who  monopolize  authority  in  that  jurisdiction; 
and  I  have  too  much  respect — fear,  I  might 
almost  say — to  venture  to  rival  them  in  their 
special  field. 

There  is  no  harm  in  my  incidentally  calling 
to  your  minds  how  the  good  God  has  blest 
us  in  the  matter  of  voice.  Did  you  ever  study 
a  joyful  dog?  Look,  how  he  twists  and 
twines  his  body  almost  around  itself!  How 
he  dances  hither  and  thither  in  a  walk-around 
of  aimless  beatitude,  leaps  up  and  down  (if 
he  is  properly  trained,  of  course  he  keeps 
sheer  of  your  person),  and  finally  how 

"  He  chortles  in  his  joy  "  ! 
165 


Ballads  and  Poor    brute  !      He    cannot    speak  —  he    can 
yrtcs.  merely  chortle ;  and  although  the  chortle  be 

a  complete  sonata  in  itself,  it  is  not  of  the 
category  of  articulate  speech,  and  its  highest 
development  is  a  short,  sharp  bark.  The 
bark  means  something^it  means  a  great  deal 
at  times;  and  dogs,  like  parrots,  are  some- 
times accused  even  of  profanity.  I  think  it 
was  Sir  William  Hamilton  who  had  a  dog 
that  was  accustomed  to  ejaculate,  ' '  D — n 
grandmamma!"  But  the  ordinary  dog, 
black-and-tan,  or  pointer,  or  setter,  or  "yaller 
dog,"  is  no  conversationalist.  His  genius  lies 
in  other  channels  entirely;  and  when  he  gets 
conceited  and  tJmiks  he  has  a  voice,  and  tries 
it  (*and  people  are  always  fancying  they  have 
talent  when  they  have  not),  the  community 
arises  and  subdues  him. 

Referring  again  to  the  matter  of  voice  and 
speech :  there  is  an  old  Persian  tradition, 
that  when  humanity  was  first  distributed  over 
the  earth,  there  was  no  speech.  They  wor- 
ried along  without  it.  When  two  people 
took  the  disease  of  love,  in  those  quaint  days, 
they  did  not  talk  at  all;  they  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes  and  "just  knew  it,"  and  the 
knowledge  was  all  in  all.  But  later  the  fine 
sensibility  of  those  early  mute  passionists 
wore  off,  and  it  took  at  least  a  kiss  to  satisfy 

1 66 


them.     Times  are  wonderfully  altered   since   Ballads  and 

then.     That  is  all  very  well  for  the  Persians ; 

but  my  own  private  theory  is,  that  when  the 

first  man  became  ensnared,  the  silly  creature 

felt  as  gay  as  a  shouting-  Methodist,  and  that 

is  the  way  he  found  out  that  he  had  vocal 

organs  at  all. 

But  however  those  />d';zi?-protoplasmal  an- 
cestors started  on  their  musical  and  elocu- 
tionary education,  it  must  have  been  eons 
before  they  had  anything  like  success  in 
melody. 

Take  a  rough  bit  of  limestone:  it  is  a  dull 
pebble;  it  has  no  beauty  save  to  a  mineralo- 
gist, and  little  even  to  him.  Grind  that  lime- 
stone, mix  it  with  water,  fling  it  in  the  sea; 
let  it  pass  through  transformation  after  trans- 
formation. It  may,  by  good  luck,  gather 
itself  together  after  ages,  and  appear  in  its 
integrity  a  pearl  of  great  price — pink  or 
black,  as  the  conditions  may  warrant. 

Such  has  been  the  fate  of  the  human  voice. 
The  cave-dweller's  organ  is  like  the  lime- 
stone, and  the  diva's  is  the  pearl.  Vocal 
limestone  has  survived  in  huge  bowlders,  so 
to  speak,  and  vocal  pearls  are  rare  and 
precious  still. 

I  have  said  that  it  took  long  for  humanity 
to  find  a  voice — mellow  and  flexible — so  long 
167 


Ballads  ayid  that  ever  since  it  has  been  bolstered  up  by 
y^^'-^-  written    speech    it    has    scarcely    improved. 

The  Rig-Vedas  probably  were  intoned  in  as 
melodious  utterance  when  first  composed  as 
any  speech  of  to-day.  All  great  ideas,  how- 
ever, grow  slowly. 

Music  has  appropriated  to  itself  most  of 
the  development  of  language — not  all.  Go 
and  hear  a  great  orator  on  a  great  subject, 
and  you  will  see  that  voices  are  being  culti- 
vated. Actors  are  at  work  in  that  field.  The 
theatre  should  be  a  school  for  speech.  He 
is  but  a  paltry  clown  who  does  not  remem- 
ber his  duty  in  that  regard. 

If  it  took  ages  to  smooth  the  hoarseness, 
the  gurgle,  the  gruffness,  the  gutturality  out 
of  the  human  voice  in  the  times  of  pre- 
adamites — to  comb  out  the  tones,  and  take 
the  snarls  out — think  how  long  it  must  have 
been  before  that  voice  grew  capable  of  musi- 
cal expression.  Think  how  many  genera- 
tions of  breeding  the  stock  of  that  dog  who 
could  ' '  d — n  grandmamma ' '  it  would  take, 
before  developing  a  canine  who  could  sing 
say  such  an  easy-going  air  as  ' '  When  John- 
ny comes  marching  home,"  and  of  having 
it  become  a  commonplace  sort  of  accom- 
plishment, such  as  an  ordinary  "  yaller  dog" 
could  pretend  to  over  his  pipe  and  pewter. 

1 68 


The  world  that  we  know  of,  humanity  as   Ballads  and 
we  find  it  recorded,  was  never  without  music.      ^^ 
Man  may,  perhaps,  have  caught  a  bar  or  two 
of  heavenly  harmony  from  those  ancient  days, 
' '  when  the  morning  stars  sang  together,  and 
all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy." 

Whether  music,  "heavenly  maid,"  came 
directly  from  the  skies  to  bless  humanity,  or 
whether  she  tarried  on  the  way,  teaching  the 
brook  to  ripple,  the  wind  to  sigh,  the  ocean 
to  murmur  its  music,  the  lark  its  song,  Philo- 
mela to  gurgle  her  air,  the  locust  his  cello 
arrangement,  and  so  prepared  an  orchestra 
to  which  man,  or  perhaps  lovely  woman, 
should  be  the  protagonist  and  choragus,  song 
is  old.  The  builder  of  the  Pyramids  had 
probably  a  ' '  chanty ' '  song  as  he  heaved 
away  at  his  huge  blocks;  the  Nile  boatman 
had  his  air  as  he  floated  lazily  down  the 
stream;  the  ploughman,  and  the  reaper,  and 
the  soldier  had  their  melodies,  only  there 
were  no  phonographs  to  bring  them  to  us; 
and  the  tiles  of  Nineveh  may  tell  us  many 
things,  but  not  the  music  that  floated  in  the 
Assyrian  atmosphere  or  about  the  Hanging 
Gardens  of  Babylon. 

We  cannot  even  make  certain  of  our  own 
more  direct  predecessors,  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  their  musical  ideas.  We  know 
169 


Ballads  and  that  the  songs  of  Sappho  and  Alcaeus  were 
yrics.  beautifully  sung;  but  we  cannot  sing  them; 

and  we  only  surmise  their  sweetness. 

To-night,  I  am  to  discuss,  in  a  sketchy  sort 
of  way,  the  subject  of  Ballads  and — inci- 
dentally and  by  way  of  digression — of  Lyrics. 
Ballads  and  Lyrics  must  be  considered  a  very 
broad  subject.  It  is  hard  to  say  where  we  can 
commence.  Orpheus  is  too  far  back — even 
Terpander,  the  yEolian,  is  a  misty  personage; 
Arion  is  almost  a  demigod  with  antiquity. 

Then,  too,  the  terms  have  a  broad  signifi- 
cation. Dr.  Maginn  has  very  plausibly  put 
the  Homeric  poems  in  the  category  of  bal- 
lads, and  Macaulay  has  tried  to  fancy,  from 
the  few  Fescennine  verses  which  have  come 
down  to  us,  what  Roman  ballads  were  like. 

Lyrics  are  a  character  of  composition  more 
easily  typified  and  classed,  and  nowadays  bal- 
lad and  lyric  somewhat  overlap  each  other; 
although  the  lyric  has  generally  crowned  the 
musical  goddess,  while  the  ballad  has  come  by 
way  of  girdle  about  her  heart.  Our  present 
lyric  form  is  more  than  twenty-five  centuries 
old.  The  learned  and  genial  author  of  ' '  Rab 
and  His  Friends"  compares  without  violence 
Sappho,  600  B.  C,  and  Burns,  of  our  own 
century  almost;  and  the  comparison  is  strik- 
ing and  suggestive. 

170 


It  has  been  seriously  deplored  that  the  Ballads  and 
preservers  and  editors  of  ballad  and  song  -^ 
collections  have  in  the  main  been  worthy  old 
Dryasdusts — gentlemen  powerful  in  the  mat- 
ter of  plodding  learning,  but  in  no  wise  gifted 
with  the  delicacy  of  hearing  which  apper- 
taineth  to  the  joyous  science  of  music;  and 
hence  have  neglected  the  airs  which  vivified 
the  ancient  minstrelsy  of  the  present  culti- 
vated world.  You  might  as  well  ask  a  life- 
less form,  bereft  of  the  electric  blood  which 
should  permeate  it,  to  show  forth  an  intellect, 
as  that  a  song  or  ballad  should  win  its  ap- 
plause by  the  simple  mumbling  of  the  words, 
that  have  fastened  upon  its  music  like  moss 
upon  some  lithe  and  airy  statue.  I  felt  the 
force  of  that  fact  when  the  matter  of  my 
present  discourse  was  first  suggested  to  me, 
and  also  that  something  heroic  must  be  done 
to  shelter  my  own  short-comings;  and  I 
must  admit  that  it  is  a  perverse  fate  that  has 
placed  me  in  the  attitude,  in  any  capacity,  of 
expounder  of  the  science  and  art  of  song. 

When  a  man  is  in  a  bad  way;  when  busi- 
ness has  ruined  him,  and  the  financial  world 
has  given  him  the  cold  shoulder;  when  he  is 
desperate,  and  saltpetre  wouldn't  save  him — 
he  generally  goes  moping  home  and  pours 
out  the  wealth  of  his  misery  in  his  good  wife's 
171 


Ballads  afid  lap,   mopping   his    disconsolate   eyes    in   her 
■^^     '  apron.     She  it  is  who  must  find  expedients; 

she  must  invent  something;  and  whether  she 
succeeds  or  not,  he  crawls  behind  her  ample 
skirts  for  protection  and  sustenance.  Such  is 
man's  nature.  With  all  his  conceited  brutal- 
ity, his  arrogant  assumption  of  independence, 
from  the  earliest  protoplasmic  days,  doubt- 
less, he  has,  at  his  last  or  despairing  moments, 
cowered  behind  the  woman  as  a  bulwark  of 
courage. 

And  so  I  took  a  manly  course  for  to-night. 
I  have  sought  a  lady's  assistance  *  to  help  me 
out;  and  all  I  can  say  now  is,  that  if  there  is 
any  failure  in  this  evening's  programme,  of 
course  it  is  the  fault  of  the  woman.  Before 
proceeding  to  the  matter  of  my  essay,  I 
would  make  another  suggestion  to  you  upon 
which  to  reflect  in  connection  with  the  subject 
of  the  evening :  It  is  the  resistless  power 
which  voiceful  music  has  upon  our  wills — 
how  it  usurps  an  unbidden  authority  over  us. 
I  sometimes  think  there  is  something  uncanny 
and  unchristian  in  the  spell.  The  story  of 
the  Sirens  and  Odysseus  is  no  absolute  fic- 
tion; Lorelei  charming  the  Rhine  boatmen  is 


*Judge  Rearden  was  aided  in  the  reading  of  this  essay  by 
Mrs.  Ida  Norton,  who  sang  the  ballads  and  lyrics  mentioned, 
or  others  illustrative  of  the  text. 

172 


not  a  legendary  absurdity.  If  I  were  one  Ballads  and 
of  those  good  old-fashioned  judges,  like  Sir 
Matthew  Hale,  and  issued  writs  de  sagis  com- 
burendis,  for  the  burning  of  witches,  I  would 
not  bother  my  head  at  all  about  the  withered 
beldames  who  rode  broomsticks,  and  were 
fond  of  other  out-of-the-way  amusements, 
but  would  see  if  the  culprit  could  sing;  and 
if  yea,  there  would  be  a  prima  facie  case 
against  her,  which  it  would  require  strong 
evidence  to  rebut,  and  the  sheriff  would  at 
once  see  that  there  was  a  bountiful  supply 
of  faggots  at  hand. 

Music  is  indeed  a  material  force — as  much 
so  as  light,  heat,  or  electricity;  and  its  effect 
is  as  magical  and  inexplicable. 

You  are  all  familiar  with  the  Fall  of  Man 
— you  believe  it — you  ought  to,  from  internal 
evidence  alone — his  temptation,  as  set  forth 
in  those  sublime  first  chapters  of  Genesis. 
That  story  has  come  home  to  the  bosoms  of 
nations  whose  names  have  passed  into  ob- 
livion. Those  chapters  have  in  them  the 
expression  of  great  truths,  philosophical, 
psychical,  and  physical — "And  the  man  said: 
the  woman  whom  thou  gavest  to  be  with  me, 
she  gave  me  of  the  tree,  and  I  did  eat. ' ' 

The  story  may  or  may  not  be  an  allegory; 
but  were   I  to  restate  that  truth  for  modern 

173 


Ballads  and  comprehension,  as  homely  preachers    some- 
■'" ^''^'  times  do  treat  Bible  truths,  I  would  not  de- 

pict it  precisely  as  it  occurred  to  the  sacred 
historian  (something  similar  occurred  to  Ver- 
gil, however).  But  I  should  not  represent 
the  temptress  as  slinking  out  from  behind 
the  orchard — a  snow-limbed  Eve — her  beau- 
teous jaws  stretched  over  the  expansive  sur- 
face of  a  mellow  pippin,  or  holding  it  out 
treacherously  for  the  unsuspecting  Adam  to 
"take  a  bite."  No,  I  should  depict  her  as 
fully  clothed,  sauntering  along  some  trout- 
stream,  with  a  typical  rod  and  fly  in  her 
grasp,  and  a  big  flip-flapping  hat  upon  her 
beautiful  head,  trolling  some  ballad  catch, 
and  enchanting  and  enslaving  some  silly 
angler  down  the  stream;  or  perhaps  in  some 
country  house,  on  a  rainy  day,  seated  at  a 
tuneless  piano  and  picking  out  some  careless 
notes,  while  the  corp2is  delicti  lounged  upon 
a  sofa,  puffing  a  stupid  cigar,  and  gazing  in 
enraptured  idiocy  upon  the  Moresque  convo- 
lutions of  her  back  hair. 

The  Laureate — back  in  the  thirties — seems 
to  have  had  some  such  idea  of  the  modern 
siren,  and  he  has  shadowed  it  forth  in 
"Maud": 


A  voice  by  the  cedar-tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 


174 


She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me,  Ballads  and 

A  passionate  ballad,  gallant  and  gay,  Lyncs. 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array. 

Ready  in  heart,  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

Maud,  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice,  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky. 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 

^laud,  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 

Singing  of  Death  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice  ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !     I  will  hear  you  no  more. 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind. 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice." 

And  again  : 

"  'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls; 
'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 


Ballads  aiid  And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 

Lyrics.  In  a  moment  we  shall  meet; 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings." 

In  short,  the  poet  thoroughly  appreciated 
the  charm  of  a  simple  song;  and  his  own 
exquisite  successes  in  that  behalf  are  conclu- 
sive evidences  of  the  fact. 

I  refer  to  this  simplicity  to  show  how  pow- 
erful is  the  impression  which  Folk-music  has 
upon  the  human  organization,  partly  perhaps 
because  it  appeals  to  our  homelier  intellectual 
capacity,  but  chiefly  because  of  the  sensuous 
form — the  musical  vehicle  wherewith  the  idea 
is  conveyed  to  or  aroused  within  us. 

Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  in  the  glorious  days 
of  English  literature  and  taste,  advanced  the 
belief  that  he  cared  not  who  made  the  na- 
tion's laws  provided  that  he  could  make  its 
ballads;  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  declares:  "I 
never  heard  Chevy  Chase,  the  old  song 
of  Percy  and  Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my 
heart  moved  more  than  with  a  trumpet,  and 
yet  it  is  sung  but  by  some  blinde  crowder, 
with  no  rougher  voice  than  rude  style." 

The  ballad  is  a  comparatively  modern  po- 
etic form.     It  is  reputed  to  have  taken  its 

176 


rise  in  the  later  Byzantine  days.  In  those  Ballads  and 
times,  the  ancient  Greek  language  had  fallen  ^ 
upon  evil  days.  It  was  subject  to  constant 
disintegration.  The  poetic  dew  which  had 
glistened  upon  both  poetry  and  prose  from 
the  glory  of  Homer  to  the  polished  Alexan- 
drine poets  was  being  dispelled  in  the  harsh 
and  sultry  noon-day  of  the  Lower  Empire. 
The  old  cicada  music  was  stilled;  the  great 
god  Pan  had  long  been  dead;  and  the  lan- 
guage was  as  broken  and  formless  as  an  ice 
palace  in  ruin.  Quantity  and  tone  —  that 
something  beautiful  in  the  youth  of  Grecian 
language — had  vanished;  and  accent  was  rep- 
resented by  emphasis;  and  chivalric  poetry, 
love  ditty,  and  drinking  song  —  everything 
appertaining  to  sentiment,  came  forth  in  a 
flippant  and  jingling  measure,  and  bearing 
as  much  resemblance  to  ancient  Greek  rhyth- 
mic sublimity  as  a  coin  of  those  Greek  em- 
perors was  in  art  like  an  intaglio  of  Pyrgo- 
teles  or  Dioscorides. 

One  of  the  fashions  of  the  Greek  balladist 
— if  I  may  so  call  him — was  to  work  into  his 
compositions  the  Grecian  legends  of  more 
classical  epochs,  as  handed  down  in  vulgar 
tradition,  or  as  travestied  from  the  scholarship 
that,  until  the  downfall  of  Constantinople,  still 
haunted  the  Byzantine  capital.  For  instance, 
177 


Ballads  and  a  popular  ballad  story  was  that  of  Hero  and 
'*'  '    ■  Leander,  which  strayed  into  the  far  west  of 

Europe,  as  it  is  found  in  almost  every  Ger- 
manic dialect. 

Legends  of  the  saints  also  were  embodied 
and  told  in  ballads,  and  it  is  from  the  soft- 
ened poetic  versions  of  popular  song  that  we 
obtain  our  current  ideas  of  many  of  the  re- 
ligious heroes,  whose  portraiture  in  history 
is  often  widely  at  variance  with  the  mirac- 
ulous halo  cast  about  the  saint's  head  by 
the  rhythmic  tale.  For  instance,  St.  George 
of  Cappadocia,  the  patron  of  English  chiv- 
alry, is  described  in  far  different  terms  in  the 
cold  pages  of  Gibbon  from  the  heroic  slayer 
of  the  loathly  dragon,  as  he  is  depicted  in 
legends  and  mythic  verse. 

I  must  here  trespass  upon  the  patience  of 
my  audience  by  reading  a  Greek-Romaic 
ballad,  a  fair  type  of  the  character  I  have  men- 
tioned, introduced  to  Americans  by  the  late 
learned  Professor  Sophocles,  who  did  so  much 
for  Greek  scholarship  in  the  United  States, 
from  the  faithful  version  of  President  Felton. 

CONSTANTINE    AND    ARETE. 

O  mother,  thou  with  thy  nine  sons,  and  with  one 

only  daughter, 
Thine  only  daughter,  well  beloved,  the  dearest  of 

thy  children, 

178 


For  twelve  years  thou  didst  keep  the  maid — the    Ballads  and 

sun  did  not  behold  her,  Lyrics. 

Whom  in  the  darkness  thou  didst  bathe — in  secret 

braid  her  tresses; 
And  by  the  starlight  and  the  dawn,  didst  wind  her 

curling  ringlets; 
Nor  knew  the  neighborhood  that  thou  didst  have 

so  fair  a  daughter — 
When  came  to  thee  from  Babylon,  a  wooer's  soft 

entreaty — 
Eight  of  the  brothers  yielded  not,  but  Constantine 

consented — 
"O  mother,  give  thine  Arete,  bestow  her  on  the 

stranger. 
That  I  may  have  her  solace  dear  when  far  away  I 

wander." 
"Though  thou  art  wise,  my  Constantine,  thou  hast 

unwisely  spoken; 
Be  woe  my  lot,  or  be  it  joy,  who  will  restore  my 

daughter? " 
He  calls  to  witness  God  above,  he  calls  the  Holy 

Martyrs, 
Be  woe  her  lot,  or  be  it  joy,  he  would  restore  her 

daughter — 
And  when  they  wedded  Arete  in  that  far  distant 

country. 
Then  comes  the  year  of  sorrowing,  and   all  the 

nine  did  perish. 
All  lonely  was  the  mother  left  like  a  reed  alone  in 

the  meadow; 
O'er  the  eight  graves  she  beats  her  breast,  o'er 

eight  was  heard  her  wailing. 
And   at  the  tomb  of  Constantine,  she  rends  her 

hair  in  anguish. 


179 


Ballads a7id   "Arise,  my  Constantine,  arise,  for  Arete   I  lan- 
Lyrics.  guish; 

On  God  to  witness  thou  didst  call,  didst  call  the 

Holy  Martyrs, 
Be  woe  my  lot,  or  be  it  joy,  thou  wouldst  restore 

my  daughter." 
And   forth   at  midnight   hour  he  fares,  the  silent 

tomb  deserting; 
He  makes  the  cloud  his  flying  steed,  he  makes  the 

star  his  bridle, 
And  by  the  silver  moon  conveyed,  to  bring  her 

home  he  journeys  : 
And  finds  her  combing  down  her  locks,  abroad 

by  silvery  moonlight. 
And  greets  the  maiden  from  afar,  and  from  afar 

bespeaks  her : 
"Arise,    my  Aretula  dear,    for  thee  our  mother 

longeth." 
"  Alas,  my  brother  !   What  is  this  ?    What  wouldst 

at  such  an  hour  ? 
If  joy  betide  our  distant  home,  I  wear  my  golden 

raiment, 
If  woe  betide,  dear  brother  mine,  I  go  as  now  I'm 

standing." 
"Think  not  of  joy,   think  not  of  woe— return  as 

here  thou  standest." 
And  while  they  journey  on  the  way,  all  on  the  way 

returning, 
They  hear  the  birds  and  what  they  sing,  and  what 

the  birds  are  saying  : 
"  Ho,  see  the  maiden  all  so  fair — a  Ghost  it  is  that 

bears  her." 
"Didst  hear  the  birds,  my  Constantine;  didst  list 

to  what  they're  saying?  " 

i8o 


"Yes,  they  are  birds,  and  let  them  sing — they're    Bal/ads and 

birds,  and  let  them  chatter."  Lyrics. 

And  yonder,  as  they  journey  on,  still  other  birds 

salute  them  : 
"What  do  we  see,  unhappy   ones?    Ah!  woe  is 

fallen  on  us — 
Lo,  there  the  living  sweep   along,  and   with   the 

dead  they  travel !  " 
"  Didst  hear,  my  brother  Constantine,  what  yonder 

birds  are  saying  ?  " 
"  Yes,  birds  are  they,  and  let  them  sing — they're 

birds,  and  let  them  chatter." 
"I  fear  for  thee,  my  brother  dear,  for  thou  dost 

breathe  of  incense." 
"Last  evening  late  we  visited  the  churcli  of  St. 

Johannes; 
And  there  the  priest  perfumed  me  o'er  with  clouds 

of  fragrant  incense." 
And  onward  as  they   hold  their  way,  still  other 

birds  bespeak  them — 
"O  God,  how  wondrous  is  Thy  power,  what  mira- 
cles Thou  workest ! 
A  maid  so  gracious  and  so  fair  !     A  Ghost  it  is  that 

bears  her." 
'Twas  heard  again  by  Arete,  and  now  her  heart 

was  breaking; 
"Didst  hearken,  brother  Constantine,  to  what  the 

birds  are  saying  ? 
Say,  where  are  now  thy  waving  locks,  thy  strong, 

thick  beard — where  is  it?  " 
"  A  sickness  sore  has  me  befallen,  and  brought  me 

near  to  dying." 
They  find  the  house  all  locked  and  barred — they 

find  it  barred  and  bolted, 

iSi 


Ballads  and  And  all  the  windows  of  the  house  with  cobwebs 
Lyrics.  covered  over. 

"Unlock,  O   mother    mine,   unlock,  thine   Arete 

thou  seest. " 
"If  thou  art  Charon,  get  thee  gone — I   have  no 

other  children — 
My  hapless  Arete  afar,  in  stranger  lands  is  dwell- 
ing." 
"Unlock,  O  mother  mine,  unlock,    thy   Constan- 

tine  entreats  thee. 
I  called  to  witness  God  above,  I  called  the  Holy 

Martyrs, 
Were  woe  thy  lot,  or  were  it  joy,  I  would  restore 

thy  daughter." 
And  when  unto  the  door  she  came,  her  soul  from 

her  departed. 

Those  of  you  who  recall  Biirger's  famous 
ballad  of  "Leonora,"  paraphrased  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  "William  and  Mary,"  will 
notice  some  dramatic  effects  in  this  Greek 
prototype,  which  Biirger  doubtless  borrowed, 
notably  the  manner  in  which  the  heroine 
of  the  ghostly  ride  becomes,  step  by  step, 
conscious  that  her  companion  is  a  disembod- 
ied spirit. 

A  Greek  song  !  Not  such  as  Sappho  sang 
— not  such  as  Anacreon  sang;  not  even  such 
as  have  come  down  to  us — the  tavern  catches 
in  the  days  of  Alcibiades,  or  when  Horace 
was  getting  his  education  at  Athens.  Such 
have  musically  vanished,    although    Scheffel 

1S2 


makes  his  little  Byzantine  maid  of  honor  in  Ballads  and 
Der  treiie  Ekkehard  sing  in  the  ninth  cen-  ■^^^''  ' 
tury  an  Anacreontic  love  ditty  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  old.  Could  we  to-night  evoke 
one  of  the  revelling  deipnosophists  of  Athe- 
naeus,  we  would  have  something  from  his 
jovial  throat  which  we  would  not  wish  to 
forget.  But  we  are  indebted  to  a  young 
friend,  lately  returned  from  Greece,  for  the 
words,  and  to  his  mother  for  the  air,  of  a 
more  modern  Greek  lyric  of  popular  type, 
breathing  of  liberty  and  Christianity.* 

The  ballad  originally  did  not  have  the 
loose  meaning  which  for  several  hundreds  of 
years  we  have  given  to  it.  It  was,  at  the 
outset,  a  song  combined  with  a  dance,  rude, 
maybe,  but  essentially  of  rhythmic  motion. 
There  is  scarcely  a  vestige  left  of  this  original 
form.  The  nearest  approach  to  the  ballad 
proper  in  our  day  is  in  children's  songs: 

"  Nor  you  nor  I  nor  no  one  knows 
How  oats,  pease,  beans,  and  barley  grows"; 
or, 

"  Hippety,  hippety  hop  to  the  barber's  shop 
To  buy  a  stick  of  candy"; 
or, 

"  Uncle  John  is  very  sick; 

What  shall  we  send  him?" 

*  Which  was  here  sung. 
183 


Ballads  and       The    French    have   a    numerous   array  of 
yncs.  these  melodies,  like  "  Le  Chevalier  du  Guet," 

and  old  song-books  indicate  how  large  an 
element  was  bodily  motion  in  popular  music. 
All  these  have  a  certain  dramatic  kernel  in 
their  composition,  which  has  perhaps  lain 
dormant  for  thousands  of  years,  like  the  seeds 
of  flowers  shut  in  from  moisture  by  the  rocky 
clefts  where  they  repose.  I  think  a  touch  of 
the  idea  in  the  common  children's  game, — 

"Open  the  gates  as  high  as  the  sky," 

may  be  found  in  Sappho,  as  a  bridal  song, 
and  even  in  the  Divine  Psalmist,  as  a  part  of 
the  choral  service  of  the  Temple. 

Italy  has  ever  been  the  home  of  music. 
Dante  was  proud  of  his  songs,  and  polished 
their  versification  with  more  care  than  prob- 
ably he  bestowed  upon  his  Divine  Poem. 
Petrarch  put  into  his  all  the  sweetness  and 
light  with  which  his  temperament  and  climate 
were  endowed.  Italy  is  the  true  home  of 
popular  music;  for  every  one  there  seems  a 
poet,  and  every  ear  is  attuned  to  harmony. 

Spanish  glory  is  prophesied  in  the  lullabies 
with  which  it  was  cradled,  in  the  days  of 
Pelayo  and  Don  Jaime.  The  early  literature 
of  Spain  is  one  of  ballads.  There  is  some- 
thing gallant  and  gay  about  every  rhythmic 

1S4 


tradition   of  The   Cid   and    his   stately   wife   Ballads  and 
Ximena.     No  wonder  the  French  dramatist 
was  carried  away  with  his  subject. 

It  is  likely  that  the  Gothic  chants  of  the 
early  kingly  period  of  Spain  were  modified 
and  often  supplanted  by  the  musical  themes 
of  the  Moslem  intruders. 

It  is  difficult  to  snatch  an  idea  of  a  race  so 
widely  divergent  from  Western  sentiment  as 
the  Arab;  but  there  is  a  song  which  may 
serve  as  a  type,  the  English  words  whereof 
are  by  one  Carlyle  (not  Thomas — he  had  lit- 
tle music  in  his  soul),  a  scholar  of  the  last 
century.  It  is  a  very  ancient  ditty  of  the 
desert  roamer. 

Herder  in  Germany  made  a  close  study  of 
Folk-music  among  the  Germanic  nations;  and 
"  Sir  Olaf  and  His  Bride"  was  from  the  same 
legendary  source  as  Goethe's  "Erl-King." 
Indeed,  Herder  looked  into  Spanish  ballad 
history  as  well;  and  his  stringing  together  of 
the  verse  that  told  the  story  of  the  Cid  Cam- 
peador,  and  his  courtship  and  brave  deeds,  is 
a  charming  production,  full  of  fire  and  music. 

Goethe's  catholic  taste  led  him  in  the  same 
direction.  His  "King  in  Thule"  is  a  re- 
polished  Folk-song  (the  same  may  be  said 
of  the  "Erl-King"),  spreading  in  variations 
through  Danish,  German,  Norse,  and  even 
185 


Ballads  and  English  literature.  Goethe  had  a  felicitous 
■^^^    '  way  of  appropriating  songs  that  had  attracted 

him.  The  ditty  sung  by  Mephisto  at  Mar- 
garet's window  comes  from  Ophelia — a  cyn- 
ical song  that  in  fact  has  its  origin  far  back 
in  Byzantine  days ;  and  even  the  quaint 
grave-digger's  song  in  Hamlet  is  put  by  the 
German  poet  in  the  month  of  his  Lemures 
at  Faust's  death.  The  music  of  the  "  Erl- 
King "  may  be  said  to  have  almost  made 
Schubert's  reputation. 

Heine  was  a  master  of  lyric  composition; 
but  he,  too,  like  Moliere,  took  his  goods 
wherever  he  found  them,  with  a  noble  dis- 
regard of  the  hue-and-cry  of  plagiarism.  His 
song  of  "  Lorelei"  is  but  the  latest  blossom 
of  a  popular  poetic  growth,  as  definite  and 
smooth  as  the  Rhine  itself. 

The  earliest  ascertained  specimen  of  an 
English  ballad  is  one  with  the  words  of  which 
some  of  you  are  perhaps  familiar.  We  are 
indebted  for  much  of  our  lyric  literature  to 
one  Walter  Mapes,  whom  Tennyson  brings 
on  the  scene  in  his  drama  of  "  Becket." 

"Somer  is  yeomen  in  " 

is  in  the  English-Saxon  of  its  day,  the  twelfth 
century. 

The  real  home  of  the   English  ballad   is 

iS6 


the  "North  Countrie."     The  Lowland  Scot,    Ballads  and 
peasant  or  noble,  has  ever  y>i^s. 

"  Heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies." 

In  looking  into  the  songful  history  of  the 
land  of  Burns,  one  is  fairly  overcome  with 
the  embarrassment  of  riches.  Burns  himself 
is  only  the  crown  of  the  column.  There  are 
none  of  the  Scottish  poets  who  are  his  exact 
equals;  but  if  Burns  be  ranked  as  a  lyric 
duke,  there  are  many  earls,  and  a  mob  of 
voiceful  barons  of  music.  Even  the  bar  in 
Scotland  have  ears  and  voices,  from  Lord 
Neaves  and  George  Outram  down  to  a  hum- 
ble apprentice  like  Sir  Walter.  Burns  did 
not  scorn  taking  an  old  ballad  or  song,  and 
fitting  it  up  to  his  liking;  and  of  his  work  it 
may  be  said,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Gold- 
smith: 

"  Nil  tetegit  quod  non  ornavit." 

Ballads  had  fallen  into  disrepute  in  the 
days  of  Queen  Bess — a  sure  index  of  their 
overworn  popularity  prior  to  that  time.  It 
is  amusing  to  note  the  frequent  references  to 
ballads  in  Shakspeare  as  tending  to  show  the 
precise  esteem  in  which  they  were  held.  It 
may,  too,  be  remarked  how  low  the  glorious 
minstrel's  profession  had  fallen,  when  we  find 
187 


Ballads  and  Prince  Hal  breaking  the  head  of  that  wise 
■Lytics.  ^j^^  witty  man,  Sir  John,  for  Hkening  him  to 

a  "singing  man  of  Windsor."  If  all  the 
pertinent  citations  in  Shakspeare  are  collat- 
ed, a  very  good  definition  of  a  ballad  will  be 
evolved.  It  will  be  seen  that  any  short  lyric 
was  then  yclept  a  ballad,  although  no  possi- 
bility of  singing  it  to  dance  music  existed. 
It  may  be  noted,  however,  that  none  of  the 
songs  found  in  Shakspeare  are  certainly  his 
own.  He  took  what  was  good  in  popular 
use;  and  it  may  also  be  noted  that  his  taste 
is  generally  exquisite. 

Irish  ballads  had  the  air  of  a  bygone  and 
faded  beauty.  Irish  music  seemed  a  sort  of 
croon,  to  be  murmured  by  some  bent  and 
decrepit  granny  as  she  turned  a  spinning- 
wheel.  Moore,  however,  poured  his  poetic 
elixir  into  the  shrivelled  lips;  and  the  melo- 
dies resounded  from  Dublin  to  Calcutta, 
from  London  to  Upper  Canada. 

There  is  one  thing  which  may  be  remarked 
about  the  Irish  air:  when  the  movement  is 
rapid,  it  is  humorous — I  might  almost  say 
witty — and  grotesque;  when  slow,  it  is  pain- 
fully weird  and  pathetic. 

You  have  all  been  touched  with  the  beauty 
of  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer";  but  take 
the  same   notes    in    the   original    air,    "The 

1 88 


Lyrics. 


Groves  of  Blarney,"    and   change   again  to   Ballads a^id 
' '  The  Bells   of  Shandon. ' '     Thackeray  was 
fond  of  this  air — probably  because,  like  him- 
self,  it  had  pathos,  satire,   and  fun  in   every 
turn  of  the  tune. 

It  never  seems  to  have  been  necessary  to 
invent  a  new  tune  for  each  separate  ballad 
or  lyric.  Indeed,  a  ballad  tune  is  all  the 
better  for  age  —  like  a  Stradivarius  violin. 
The  tune  must  have  passed  through  many 
vicissitudes;  it  must  have  been  voiced  forth 
in  the  squire's  hall,  in  the  wayside  inn, 
in  the  hunting  field  ;  it  must  have  floated 
down  streams,  sung  by  maudlin  lovers  and 
rejected  suitors,  by  soldiers  and  sailors,  by 
gentle  and  simple,  drunk  and  sober,  before 
it  could  be  deemed  of  the  true  mellowness 
to  entitle  it  to  its  ultimate  royal  degree  as  a 
ballad  air. 

Let  us  take  one  instance:  When  in  the 
East,  Chateaubriand  heard  among  the  Arabs 
a  certain  well-known  air;  and  somehow,  he 
romantically  assumed  that  it  had  been  origi- 
nally brought  to  France  by  returned  Crusad- 
ers, who  had  heard  it  sung  beneath  the  walls 
of  Ascalon  to  the  clash  of  paynim  shields. 

"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre" 

was  a  cradle  melody  sung  by  the  muse  of  the 
189 


Ballads  and  unhappy  dauphin,  Louis  Seize.    The  bewitch- 
'■^'^    ■  ing  Marie  Antoinette  caught  the  air  and  its 

grotesque  words,  and  hummed  the  song 
among  her  briUiant  courtiers.  Forthwith,  all 
France  was  taken  with  the  fun;  and  the  ficti- 
tious death  of  the  great  English  duke  was  in 
every  mouth.  The  absurd  story  of  the  song 
was  painted  upon  fans,  each  verse  adorning  a 
separate  fold;  and  the  beautiful  duchess  was 
represented,  now  fat,  now  lean,  and  always 
ridiculous. 

You  may  remember  the 

"  Pretty  page  with  dimpled  chin," 

in  the  "Marriage  of  Figaro,"  and  how  Mozart 
puts  in  his  mouth  a  beautiful  song,  which 
will  probably  charm  many  a  future  generation 
as  it  has  many  a  past.  Well,  Beaumarchais, 
like  the  courtier  that  he  was,  in  the  prose 
drama  as  it  was  originally  produced,  has  this 
pretty  page  sing  his  woe  and  languorous  pas- 
sion for  his  charming  godmother,  the  count- 
ess, to  this  same  tune  of  "  Malbrouck,  that 
prince  of  commanders."  Then  the  army 
men  got  hold  of  the  tune,  and  every  cavalry 
man  rubbed  down  his  horse,  or  polished  his 
brasses,  to  the  air  of 

"  It's  a  way  we  have  in  the  army." 

190 


And  so  it  travelled  back  and  forth ;  and  tra-  Ballads  and 
dition  has  it  that  the  great  Napoleon  was  y^^'^^- 
wont  to  hum  the  air  as  he  mounted  to  start 
forth  upon  his  campaigns,  and  it  came  back 
to  him  at  St.  Helena  as  a  grotesque  reminis- 
cence. It  ultimately  crossed  the  water;  and 
I  think  I  can  remember  graceless  college 
students  howling,  in  a  symphony  of  inebriety, 

"We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
Till  daylight  doth  appear," 

and  other  lawless  and  irregular  sentiments 
not  necessary  here  to  specify. 

Another  air  which  has  served  many  a  song, 
as  a  sort  of  Leporello  to  a  wicked  Don  Gio- 
vanni, is  "Lauriger."  It  hath  a  smack  of 
that  jolly  old  cleric.  Archdeacon  Mapes,  of 
Oxford,  who  wrote  the  song, 

"  Mihi  est  propositum 
In  taberna  mori," 

of  which  Leigh  Hunt  has  made  an  English 
version.     It  has  been  a  Kneip  song: 

"Auf  meiner  Kneip  ist  alies  leer"; 

then  the  mournful  whine  of  a  woman-hater, 
down  in  the  dumps,  with  a  frightful  Katzen- 
jammer,  no  money,  and  a  jilting  sweetheart, 

"Tannenbaum,  oh  Tannenbaum"; 

191 


Ballads  and  then  a  political  song  in   the  days  of  '48   in 
Lyrics.  -n 

■^  rrussia, 

"Oh  Holzenberg,  oh  Holzenberg, 
Du  segen  von  Neu  Brandenberg"; 

and,  as  "Lauriger,"  it  crossed  the  ocean;  and 
down  in  the  old  National  Road  town  of  Cum- 
berland I  have  heard  it  sung  by  malignant 
but  lovely  rebels  behind  rose-trellised  win- 
dows as  "  Maryland,  my  Maryland." 

Here  let  me  say — and  any  married  man 
present  will  promptly  bear  me  out  in  the 
statement — that  lovely  woman  is  never  su- 
premely happy  save  when  she  is  rebelling 
against  something  or  somebody.  The  sex 
enjoys  sedition.  You  all  remember  the  great 
hulking  brute  of  an  Irishman  who  was  twitted 
with  the  fact  that  his  little  wife  could  beat  him 
whenever  she  chose,  and  who  replied,  "It 
don't  hurt  me,  and  it  plazes  her."  Hence,  a 
rebellious  song,  Jacobite  or  Southron,  has  a 
special  fitness  from  a  woman's  throat. 

Another  air  which  has  done  yeoman  ser- 
vice in  all  climates  and  times  is  the  song  in 
"Arrah  na  Pogue. "  There  is  a  tippling  air 
indigenous  to  Scotland,  which  scents  strongly 
of  toddy: 

"  We've  always  been  provided  for. 
And  sae  we  sail  be  yet." 

192 


This  catch,  borne  on  a  whiff  of  punch  across   Ballads  and 
the  Irish  sea,  turns  up  in  Ireland  as  a  patri- 
otic  song-  of '98, — 

"  I  met  with  Napper  Tandj-, 

And  he  tuk  me  by  the  hand  "; 

and,  whatever  the  entire  lyric  was,  Mr.  Bouci- 
cault  found  it  and  added  verses  to  it,  and 
it  circled  the  globe  as  the  ' '  Wearing  of  the 
Green."  It  had  passed  over  to  America  be- 
times; and  when  the  Central  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  threw  out  of  employment  an  army 
of  teamsters,  they  vented  their  grief  and  re- 
sentment in  a  strain  to  the  old  air: 

"A-cheating  us  poor  wagoners 
And  every  honest  man." 

Then  Dr.  O'Brien,  of  the  army,  immortalized 
Benny  Havens  to  the  old  tune  ;  and  every 
college  in  the  land  admitted  it  as  a  student- 
song  with  many  sets  of  words.  But  the  most 
aristocratic  promotion  which  the  air  received 
was  when  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  his  "Song  of 
Other  Days,"  and  the  melody,  tippler-hke, 
hovered  over  the  famous  punch-bowl  of  the 
learned,  the  witty,  the  poetic,  and  the  now 
venerable  professor;  and  in  my  day,  I  re- 
member the  air  floating  about  colleges,  with 
the  Doctor's  charming  lyric: 

"As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet." 
193 


Ballads  and       But  I  must  close.      I  have  not  done  justice 
■  to  the  subject  of  my  essay,  nor  can  I.      I  will 

not  claim  for  the  ballad  any  place  in  the 
hierarchy  of  intellectual  enjoyment  to  which 
it  is  not  entitled.  But  whatever  else  there 
may  be  lacking  in  the  ballad,  it  is  genuine  in 
its  nature.  It  cannot  be  rhetorically  parsed, 
nor  need  it  be.  Its  true  emotional  nature 
may  best  be  described  in  the  words  of  Shaks- 
peare  introducing  one  of  the  sweet  airs  of  his 
time: 

"  Nuvv,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night; 
Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much. 

Mark  it,  Cesario,  it  is  old  and  plain; 

The  spinsters  and  the  Icnitters  in  the  sun 

And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with 

bones 
Do  use  to  chaunt  it;  it  is  silly  sooth. 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love. 
Like  the  old  age." 

That  Shakspeare  was  subject  to  the  witch- 
ery of  song  may  be  seen  in  his  verse — 

"That  strain  again;  it  had  a  dying  fall: 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound 
Tliat  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
StealiniT  and  giving  odor." 


194 


I 


I 


There  are,  here  and  there,  in  Shaks])eare  Dallads  and 
verses  of  songs  which  ha\'e  been  lost,  but  '- 
which  have  excited,  even  as  fragments,  a 
certain  degree  of  achniration  and  Hterary 
interest.  Of  one  sucii  but  a  single  line  re- 
mains, a  drop  of  liquid  in  the  Shakspearian 
crystal.     It  is, 

"  King  Cophetua  loved  a  beggar  maid." 

On  this  suggestion,  Tennyson,  in  years  gone 
by,  composed  a  simple  and  beautiful  lyric. 

Bishop  Percy  of  Dromore,  a  learned  and 
accomplished  prelate  of  the  English  Church, 
and  a  scholar  who  has  done  as  much  as  any 
one  to  instruct  the  English-speaking  world 
as  to  the  wealth  of  its  early  poetry,  gathered 
together  several  fragments  in  Shakspeare, 
not  assignable  to  any  known  ballad,  to  make 
up  his  fam.ous 

"  'Twas  a  friar  of  orders  gray." 

It  was  this  song  which  was  the  rival  of  Gold- 
smith's cheery  and  witty  ballad  of  "Ange- 
lina," on  the  same  idea,  neither  poet  being 
conscious  of  having,  in  their  sympathy  of 
thought,  pursued  the  same  path. 

And  now,  for  your  attention  to  the  essay's 
reading,  I  have  to  thank  you.  I  think  I 
said  at  the  opening  that  if  any  fiilure  occurred 

195 


Ballads  and  in  the  evening's  entertainment,  you  were  in 
■  duty  bound  to  ascribe  it  to  the  woman.      If 

there  has  been  any  measure  of  success,  it  is, 
of  course,  the  province  of  mascuhne  modesty 
to  lay  thereto  an  exckisive  claim.  In  apol- 
ogy for  myself,  however,  I  will  say,  with 
Don  Armado,  that  "the  words  of  Mercury 
are  harsh  after  the  songs  of  Apollo." 


196 


POEM. 


"THE  SEA!   THE  SEA!" 


IFE'S  levered  day  declines 
its  purple  twilight  falling- 
Draws  length' ning  shadows 

from  the  broken  flanks; 
And  from  the  column's  head, 
a  viewless  chief  is  calling: 
"  Guide  right — close  up  your  ranks." 


As    once    in    ancient    time,   a   Grecian    host 
defiant 
Reeled    back    from    Persia's    might,  and 
treachery,  " — ^ 

And  marched,    on   stubborn    Grecian    pluck 
alone  reliant, 
Down  to  the  Pontic  Sea; 


Full  many  a  cruel  foe  they  met  and  bravely 
routed, 
Battling  on  plain,  in  gorge,  all  mightily. 


*This  poem  was  written  by  Judge  T.  H.  Reardeii,  for  the 
Memorial  Service  of  the  G.  H.  Thomas  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  of  San 
Francisco,  held  May  3,  1S92.  It  was  read  on  that  occasion 
by  a  member  of  the  Post,  Judge  Rearden  being  ill  at  the  time. 
He  died  May  10,  1892. 

199 


'The  Sea.'     Until,   the  last  ridge  climb' d,   the    vanguard 
gazed  and  shouted 
In  tears  :   "The  Sea!   The  Sea!" 


So    we,    to-day,    with    Life's    slow,    carking 
sorrows  weary, 
With   hearts   and    natures  sore  and   over- 
worn, 
Have    trodden    long  the  steep  and   rugged 
highway  dreary- — ■ 
A  band  of  hope  forlorn. 


A  band  forlorn,  our  garish  banners  torn  and 
faded; 
Yet  still  with  pulses  beating  high  and  free. 
We  view  the  silent,  misty  shore,  with  vision 
shaded, 
Of  dim  Eternity- 


Lo!    on  the   Infinite,  Life's  straitened  king- 
dom verges. 
Worn    by    the    flood    of    Death's    weird 
mystery ; 
And  as  we  catch  the  flashing  light  on  burst- 
ing surges, 
We  hail  the  friendly  sea. 

200 


Gone  are  ye  glorious  leaders  of  our  youthful    "  The  Sea! 

.  The  Sea.'" 

muster, 

Whose  sharp  command  thrilled  like  elec- 
tric flame, 
Your   mem'ries  blended  with  the  sanguine, 
lurid  lustre 
That  gilds  the  warrior's  name. 


Ye  comrades,  too,  the  young,  the  gay,    the 
lion-hearted. 
Dead   on   the   field   or    slain    by   Fever's 
breath — 
How   many   changing   years  since   you  and 
we  were  parted — 
Your  valor  sealed  by  Death ! 

Far  in  the  broad  and  gray  expanse  of  spirit 
vision, 
Where  tempests  rail  not.  Heaven  forever 
smiles, 
Float   on   an   ever-laughing  sea,  the  Fields 
Elysian, 
The  wished-for  Happy  Isles. 

There,   long-lost  comrades,  risen  from  your 
couches  gory, 
Leaving  your  nameless  graves  and  crum- 
bling clay, 


"'The  Sea!    And,  recking  nothing  earthly  fame  or  paltry 
The  Sea  !  i 

glory, 

Ye  know  a  brighter  day. 


And   there   the  stately  captains  of  the  host 

immortal 

Call  out  the  guard  that  ushers  heroes  in; 

And  each  brave  soul  that,  trembling,  knocks 

at  Death's  dark  portal 

Is  proudly  mustered  in. 


DATE  DUE 


Mm^z. 

989  J  Q 

GAYLORD 

PRINTEDINU    S    A. 

